#the flowers that spilled from his rib cage

[baby-yongbok]

This is How It Feels

Bang Chan Soft Thought

WC - 675 ✧ Masterlist ✧

a/n - This was typed based off of an overwhelming feeling I got while listening to This is How It Feels by d4vd and Laufey so I'm sorry if it's kinda messy. Hope you enjoy!

Chan has been dreaming of you again.

He has for a while. He's found that it gets more painful with the frequency of frames that pass his still lids in the night.

He can only describe it as an act of masochism. The epitome of pleasure and pain intertwining to create what we've all come to know as love. But Chan didn't always love you, not like this. He was able to keep you in a lighter gaze. He was able to separate you from his desires until you became the center of them all. 

It was 3:30 am when he first noticed it. He was on the phone with you, something that the two of you do when he can't sleep. You had passed out an hour ago but he stayed on the call. He listened to the soft sound of your breathing and memorized the pattern of your snores. 

You groaned and turned in your sleep and he heard it all. For a second, he held his arms open for you to slot between them. He held himself open to embrace your absent figure before he could even realize it. 

Chan stood awake that night. Staring at the ceiling with the sweet sounds of you creating storms in his busy mind. You've unearthed something new in him. His heart turned and he found something underneath.

He found love.

He was content on dry drowning through his emotions after that night. He was okay with taking the bare minimum from your soft and generous hands just to imagine that it could be more one day.

It took another night of listening to you sigh and snore through the night for him to realize that this is just a pain he'll have to deal with. Confessing is not an option in his busy mind. It would be the introduction to the end, and that would kill him. Though, he is sure that you’ll be the death of him either way.

Chan convinced himself that he's content with these phone calls. The act of falling into a deep peace beside you felt natural for him. It felt right. 

When 3:30 am snuck up on him during this call he sighed as the whirlwind picked up in his chest. 

The thoughts

The desires

The pain

The love

It all belongs to you, and you'll never know it. 

The warm and erratic fluttering against a rib cage too small to contain the swelling of his heart has become a familiar sensation on nights like these. The shadow of swirling rose colored smoke that he's been desperate to pass to you is something that he'll have to inhale by himself. 

You. This atmosphere that the two of you have created. This connection that vibrates strong through time and space has metamorphosed him in the dark hours of the night like magic.

And suddenly, he feels it spilling over. Bubbling tall and staining the fabric of his sanity. 

"You always fall asleep first..." Chan whispers into the receiver as he turns to face his phone. To face you. "I'm jealous."

He chuckles, closing his eyes as the whirling in his chest gets lighter with each word he speaks. 

"I wish I could join you... or maybe you join me. I wish you were.. here. I wish you were here." He's whispering, his heart pounding loud in his ears. Parts of him dissolve in the quiet night, he wishes you were here to fill in the gaps. 

"While you're sleeping I'm falling in love." He smiles to himself. "I never knew that this is how it would feel to fall for you."

He sighs, laying on his back now. He stares at the ceiling, imagining constellations that should have your name. 

"It's hopeless." Chan looks back over to his phone. Your soft breathing has slowed. It's quiet, and for a second, he convinces himself that he doesn't care if you hear him. He takes a leap of faith and says it. Simple and soft.

"I love you so much."

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[lostsyren]

I have a request based of the scene where Rafe talks shit about her ''i have standards''. Maybe in this scenario, Rafe spots her walking away crying and he runs after her, ahh angst <3

˖⋆࿐໋ standards ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

{summary: an alternate turn of events in season 4 episode 3}

{a/n: hope you like it, thank you for the request!}

{part 2 here} {part 3 here}

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆ ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆ ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆ ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾

“Wait has she moved in yet?” Ruthie smirked, eyeing Rafe over the lip of her glass as she took a sip.

Sofia thought about her things scattered across Rafe’s house: her clothes in the drawers, the flowers she’d buy sitting in the vases, her toothbrush next to his in the bathroom. She hadn’t moved in but she may as well have.

“I’m not living with a pogue.” Sofia blinked in confusion at his callous words. She couldn’t see Rafe’s face, but she saw Ruthie and Topper’s faces perfectly. They were gleeful. That’s what she was to them– a joke. The poor, pogue bartender Rafe dragged around everywhere. And of course she followed blindly. Like a good dog. Sofia’s stomach frothed and roiled with nausea, her heart splintering in her rib cage. Heartbreak was one thing, mortification was another…her face burned with both.

“I hope not.” Ruthie chimed.

“I have standards.” Rafe muttered. Sofia’s eyes roamed Rafe’s back, the sinewy muscle imprinting on the material. The skin she’d kissed, the skin she’d grip. And now he was turning away from her. Shunning her. Twisting a knife in her heart. The rest of their words faded away like mist in the wind, leaving only the weight of emotion on Sofia’s shoulders. She wrapped her arms tightly around herself, in some self-soothing hug, as she sped back to her car, her breathing shallow and painful.

Standards. Of course Rafe Cameron had standards. And of course a girl like her didn’t meet them.

“Sofia!” She heard a voice call out behind her, barely perceptible over the sound of blood rushing through her head.

“Sofia!” This time she noticed, turning around to see no other than Rafe approach her, a smile on his lips, as if those same lips didn’t just spew all that shit about her moments earlier.

“Hey I thought you were with your family today?” He asked, nearing her outside the country club gates.

Sofia spun back around with a scoff, heading to her car, not wanting to see his face for an another second, scared she’d burst into tears in front of him.

He bridged the gap between them almost instantly, his long legs striding towards her just as she reached her car door. By this point the tears in her eyes had spilled onto her cheeks, her vision blurring into a watery film.

Rafe’s hand rested on her shoulder, as he turned her body gently to face his.

“Hey– hey hey– Sofia, what’s wrong?” He said on seeing her crying, his voice soft like gossamer. It perturbed her how quickly he could flit from cold to caring, her anger veining into confusion at the paradox of a man in front of her.

“Get off of me,” she pushed him off her, trying to sound intimidating but instead the words came out in a blubbering mess.

“Hey? What happened huh?” Rafe’s face screwed in confusion. His words came off as desperate. Pleading. Sincere… his hands hovering over her skin, still in the same place she pushed them off from. He could be so damn sweet sometimes. Maybe this was why his words pierced hard– because she never expected it from him.

“You Rafe. You happened.” She hissed, spinning around to get in her car.

But Rafe moved quicker, his big arms slamming the door shut, caging her small frame between them.

“What are you saying?–“ he began.

“I heard what you said. With Topper and Ruthie.”

She watched as his pupils widened, his jaw tightening.

“What– when…?”

Sofia rolled her eyes. “Just cause we hook up doesn’t mean I’m your girlfriend right?” She mocked, throwing his words back at him.

“Sofia–“ his face sunk, blue eyes getting even bluer.

“18 months Rafe. Nearly two years and that’s what I am to you? A hook up?”

“No,” he said, the word practically jumping out his mouth, “no of course not. Look you weren’t meant to hear that–“

“So that makes it ok then? For you to degrade me like that in front of your friends?”

“No, look I just was– I didn’t mean–“ he was stuttering, his hands reaching out to her, but never connecting the space.

“I was there for you Rafe. Did you just forget that?” She thought about holding him, teary eyed on his yacht, consoling him for the death of his father. She thought about the nights where he’d pepper her with kisses, his touch bordering on worship. She thought about his laugh, his smile, his sweet nothings. All that gone, as if it was always ephemeral.

“No. I know you were there, and I appreciate it, more than you think– ok?”

“But I’m just a pogue right?” She derided, a sarcastic, pained leer twisted on her lips.

Rafe’s face contorted in an emotion she couldn’t place, his azure irises brewing with something darker. He looked…devastated.

But she continued her barrage, words sharp, tongue fast. “And you have standards of course.”

Lips twitched, eyebrows knitted in a hurt expression, Rafe’s face bled into a heady emotion, a strange mix of regret and anger.

“Sofia…” be began warily, voice like husk. Rafe instinctively lowered his hands, trying to find purchase on the skin of her shoulders but she slipped out of his grip like smoke from fire.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t meet them for you Rafe.”

And with that she got into the drivers seat, slamming the car door shut, trying hard not to spare another glance at him.

Careeing out the parking lot with the screech of her tyres behind her, Sofia couldn’t help but chance a look in the rear view mirror. Rafe stood in the distance watching as she drove away, his hands balled into fists at his sides.

Sofia’s heart spasmed with a resounding pain, her throat itching with unshed sobs. She quickly glued her eyes on the road, her fingers gripping the steering wheel as she drove further away from the country club back to her home on The Cut…driving further away from the kook she’d fallen in love with. The kook who’d just shattered everything they had built together.

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆ ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆ ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆ ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾

[greyskyflowers]

I have all these half hearted soulmate AU ideas and I hate to just delete them, so I'm just going to post what I have and roll with it. Please enjoy some rough draft soulmate AU ideas that I'll never finish ~

💙

Visible soulmate marks

Strings - brook

All his strings are tangled in his rib cage.

Vivid red that's thickly woven and caught between several ribs, always moving and pulling Brook forward.

Dark green tangled up, knotted and fraying in some places but still one of the strongest looking strings he has.

Grey blue that's tied securely towards his inner ribs, usually tangled up with the dark green, and close to where his stomach would be if he had one. Yohohoho

Shimmering orange ribbon that shines on the edges and doesn't pull so much as guide with gentle tugs.

Brilliant yellow in twine, multiple smaller pieces braided into one larger stand and tried off on the bone is a messy knot.

Peaceful pink that's carefully tied with a bow and drapes in gentle loops to a lower height before fading.

Deep purple silk thread, it's thin and slides like water over bone, deceivingly sharp to the touch.

Neon blue wire that's bent on a few places but strong, wrapped over bone in multiple coils.

Flower tattoo - robin

Sunflowers cover her back in messy lines, sprouting into long leafy stems and then giant detailed blooms, a heavy and bright presence always at at her back.

Gladiolus grow up her left forearm in thick inked lines that intersect with fine perfect ones, and lush blooms, one of the larger blooms sits where her arms cross.

Blue stars cover her right forearm with elegant and surprisingly subtle line, the most stunning one parallel to the Gladiolus and they meet when her arms cross.

Dahlias grow around her ankles, beautiful and healthy with lines like a rough sketch, looking wind swept and rain drenched.

A mix of peonys grow on her collarbones, they're sweet and inked in childlike handwriting, the blooms hide playful behind each other in a bunch of petals

Clematis bloom on her chest, they're the largest bloom and are messily arranged, the lines are reminiscent of blueprints with scales and measurements.

Daffodil climb up her left side in elegant white ink and tangle together in all stanges of life: bud, bloom, and wilting with petals dropping.

Marigolds cover her right side in ink that mimics paint strokes, the blooms more detailed than any of the others and look like something from an old gardening book.

Color spots - luffy

Luffy is cover in color, everything from pale, watercolors to vivid metallic

Green covers his right hand and forearm, always visible and on the side that he throws the first punch with.

Pale blues mix on his left hand and forearm, intermixed like different depths of water.

Gold drips down the right side of his chest like spilled ink, a shine to it that catches the light and gleams.

Yellow shines like sunlight on his left knee, it's a burst of courageous color and quick to draw the eye.

Pale pink is whispy on his lower back like cotton candy, edges soft and happy.

Crisp, black is in sharp lines against his left ribs. They site between each rib like a shadow and curl like skeletal fingers.

Purple stains his fingers dark like fruit, it finds its way into his finger prints and trace the shape like it's memorizing it.

Solid grey wraps around his ankles like bands, gleaming like metal and strong looking against his skin.

Moving tattoos - zoro

Zoro is full of life, even when he's fast asleep

A sun, filled in with all the colors of a sunset and whispy, white clouds that roll lazily over the design before fading away and reforming again on the other side. The only mark he ever wants on his back

A part of a map wrapped around his upper, left arm. It flutters like it's catching the wind and the edges shine vivid gold and copper.

Flowers bloom on the back of his right hand, they drop petals that fade like they're sinking into water before the flower starts as a bud again.

Gears turn on his left side, little blue stars tumbling between them before flickering out and reappearing at the top.

The going merry circles his left ankle, it bobs happily under a half circle shape with 5 prongs on the inside.

There's a sheet of music wrapped around his upper, right thigh. Binks Sake, the notes jump like they're being played.

Smoke curls around his right forearm, spitting embers and flashing flames in dark smoke before settling back into a gentle grey.

Hoof prints walk in happy, steps around on his right ribcage. They're there and gone in quick black prints like soot in snow.

Names - nami

Luffy curls around her right wrist, vivid red ink that forms the letters in playful strokes.

Zoro is inked on her lower back in a strong, green.

Sanji rests in greyish blue under her left collarbone in clean, neat lines.

Chopper is a warm brown that wraps around her left ankles, the O replaced with a little hoofprint.

Usopp wraps around her right ankle in messy yellow like paint.

Robin is on her right ribs in dark purple, it's a beautiful cursive.

Franky is neon blue and sits on the back of her neck in block letters.

Brook is one her left ribs, black ink spelling his name in thin, curling strokes.

Usopp - constellations

Taurus in red like blood across his collarbone, a rough circle with proudly raised horns growing off to the sides.

Scorpio in black ink around his upper left arm, razor thin lines that raise high and curve before dropping back down and closing off in an arrow.

Cancer like copper coins behind his ear in tight, storming swirls and long tails.

Pisces in silver around his upper right thigh, two curves back to back and gleaming.

Aquarius in pearl around his fingers in waves that creast in points.

Capricorn in bronze on his right ribcage dripping down and up before curling into a circle and trailing off

Pisces in cobalt on his left shoulder blade, a second pair of curves sliced through but this pair is has thicker lines.

Aries in platinum down his spine, the curve starting by one side of the neck before dropping all the way down his back and back up to the other

Something from home - Sanji

A jungle tree cover his right arm, a small treehouse tucked in between all of the leaves and branches.

The outline of a small building rests on his lower back, the large doors are open and even though he hasn't seen it in person he knows it's a dojo.

A orange tree has roots on his right ankle and grows up his leg into a tree baring healthy, ripe oranges.

The outline of a snowy mountain covers his left ribs, the tops snow tipped and the shadows adding a depth.

A whale rests on his left hip, it's got a scar and a sprout of water above it

A trains follows it's tracks in loops around his left ankle and up to his kneecap

Another tree grows on his left leg, smaller around the base and larger around the middle with little dots like windows in the trunk.

The going merry sits between his shoulders, she's bittersweet but he's honored to have her on his skin.

Franky - bands

Red band that ties like an anchor hitch knot and the edges are wavy like the sea

Green band that's frayed and threadbare in some spots with 3 razor sharp lines carefully cut

Gold band with a little bow and faint maps designs almost light enough to overlook

Purple band with a design like lace, elegant flowers and hearts mixed in

Yellow band with textured like a rope and a little ship he knows but never met sailing on top

Brown band that looks like gauze and just barely covers a little hoof print behind it

Blue band that looks like fish scales and has smokey edges

Couldn't decide what to do for Chopper so let's just say his fur covers them 😀

💙

Soulmate AU ideas

Where you share parts of everything with your soulmate. Random thoughts, wounds, knowledge, etc will sneak through before disappearing

Luffy saying something he absolutely should not know and Robin grinning

Nami sharing in the heavy sleeping feeling from Zoro

Usopp showing off the brief wounds he gets from Sanji like they're his own before they disappear from his skin

Chopper being musical in a way someone with hooves shouldn't be

Franky having medical knowledge that a cyborg doesn't have much use for

They all know they could weld Zoro's swords if they needed. None of them trained in any type of swords style but they can feel the ache of the repetitive motions that come with training and way it feels to attack with the intention of killing. His swords are weary of them, aware of the power soulmates have. They all know what happened at Thriller Bark, felt the acceptance of death because it meant their captain wouldn't have to.

They all love Ace as their own immediately, memorizing everything about him in the way you do for a loved one. They have a fondness for Shanks and others that they've never met besides in stories. Their hands have been busted again and again, the skin splitting over broken bone. They've felt fire in their chest, a loss far deeper than skin.

They've all felt wind against exposed bone, even with there own safety wrapped in skin and muscle. They've felt strings under their fingers and hum melodies they've never heard. There's a loneliness in their heart that speaks of a lifetime lost, one they never lived.

They all felt the foreboding feeling of knowing a storm is coming while looking at clear skies. They wipe at their fingers like ink stains them and there's an itch that only comes from old scars that always sits on their shoulder. They trace maps in their heads and itch for a pen, calculations springing up in their minds for properly scaling.

They've all had situations where their hands knew what to do before they did, their eyes tracing over someone and seeing all the injuries like it was written on their skin. They've felt their noses itch with a influx of scents, knowing immediately what belonged to who. They've felt the zip down their spine of that animal instinct when in the presence of a predator.

They've all felt the feeling of being too big, metal where skin should be and a loss of nerves. They've felt the heavy satisfaction of building something new and impressive, constant bigger and better in their minds.

They've all spoke of books they've never read and place they've never been. They have felt multiple spines break and necks snap under their hands. There's knowledge in their heads that feels heavy and overwhelming, it wants to spill out from their mouths to make room. They miss a place and family that they never knew.

They've all had that vicious huger, the desperation only caused by starvation. They've felt the fleeting attraction to a stranger and also the beauty of genuine love. They have the itch for nicotine, lungs begging for something they've never had.

They've all had times where the day is clearer, a haze they didn't realize was there lifting off their eyes and letting them see further than they had before. They've felt the snap of a slingshot and the swelling urge of creation in their chest.

They never held Zoro's swords

They never mourn the loss of Ace the way Luffy has

They never taste a storm on the back of their tongue the way Nami has.

They've never aimed with the knowledge that people will get hurt if they miss like Usopp has

They never felt hunger as fiercely as Sanji has

They never saved someone's life with enough confidence the way Chopper has

They've never ran their fingers over the last of something the way Robin has

They've never traded skin for metal the way Franky has

They've never met death quite like Brook has

💙

Soulmate String of Fate AU?

Strings tangled in or around:

Zoro's swords

Luffy's hat

Brook's ribs

Robin's fingers

Sanji's wrists

Chopper's antlers

Franky's arms

Nami's bracelet

Usopp's hair

[acidicbarkbeast]

prompt; discovery of secret relationship wordcount; 1.4k wordcount rule; >300 cw; depression, loss, grief, temporary character death tags; came back wrong, monster!steve, ambiguous ending

Ao3

The week’s past was remembered in fits and starts, a hazy chase of memories slipping through his shaking fingers. In his dreams, the molten earth would be bloated with the bodies of faces not forgotten, writhing of its own accord. Above him, the sky would kick and twist, snarling red. Lightning would be spat at his feet as he danced.

He would wake with a scream on cracked lips, tears like hot blood running down his sallow face. Hours would pass as he slept, dead in none of the ways that mattered, because what was Eddie Munson to do without the boy who shone like the sun? The golden boy who, now lost, cursed his world into one of eternal darkness?

Even as spring brought flowers and longer days, Eddie could only think of rain. The park was a cage he could never leave, not when down the dirt road was a grave known only to him, a dark spot, soot from an old fire, like a house long consumed by flames. He would choke on the smoke whenever he got close, and so he would go back to bed.

There was nothing left of him.

An irreversible tragedy. He’d been gone when the winged leeches had dropped, when Eddie and the girls returned to find Dustin, wailing for his missing brother. It seemed impossible, to have nothing left of a boy who gave everything, who was so full of light. To have hell steal him away, it left them broken.

After, when the girls had torn him from his heart’s hands, as he watched the flesh of the gate knit itself closed, Eddie would stop talking. There was no one left to listen, no one worth sharing with. He could feel himself decaying, eating its own as he wasted away. People would visit, asking for him, but the loud, smiling person from before was gone, Eddie had buried him the night he slept cold and alone for the first time in months.

If the first collapse was the loss of Steve Harrington, then the second was the festering corpse of his love, exposed to them all without freckled arms to hold it close like something precious, vulnerable without its leash of a lover’s ribs. The hungry maggots swarmed like the frothing of ocean waves, and much like the tide, the others bobbed and swayed toward his sinking island, seeing what was hidden within.

New grief was born of the cavern gouged from his soft parts. This wasn’t how they were meant to find out, another goodness stolen from him. Eddie mourned and turned away from everyone else, why should he not, when none other had loved Steve as he had? Robin would call for him the most after this revelation, carrying her own devastation, but Eddie didn’t have the space inside himself for them both to weep.

She stopped coming so often after he yelled at her.

He didn’t mean to push everyone away, Eddie thought, he never meant to lash out at those who cared. He couldn’t help it, caught in the storm without his anchor. He was airborne, moved only by turbulent winds and an anger planted deep in his chest.

The phone would end up in his hand sometimes, and he’d blink awake, silently placing it in its plastic cradle and returning to his room. He never called them back.

His uncle’s worry permeated the trailer like a perfume, but Eddie’s anguish doused the place like spilled gasoline, overpowering. He was avoided like one might eye a spider creeping in the corners of walls, afraid to get too close, and in his solitude, he began to wander. Although it started in his head, then moved quickly to the surviving books on his shelves, then to staring out of the kitchen’s small window, it eventually led him outside.

There was something in the air at dusk, slithering along the breeze like a crocodile might sweep across muddy waters. The cloud over his brain would drift, lifting from him for just a moment, a single moment of free and wistful hope. He would smell sandalwood, burnt pancakes, a lazy morning’s coffee, and he would fall into the dark of the woods.

Maybe, if Eddie had stopped to think about this rationally, he would have realized the danger, but then, would such a possibility have mattered? Would he have cared, when the memories of brown hair, pink lips, and starry eyes were right there, reminding him every waking second of his wretched failure?

The wisp of a voice called his name, his hands, his heart. Eddie followed, stumbling over leaf litter in a trance. As the full moon rose, and the trees were lost to a blur of black shadow, he went deeper, so far from civilization that he could no longer think of the people who would miss him, if he were to never leave these woods again.

As he got closer, and as the smell of char grew stronger, he could hear it clearly now, the chittering and muttering. It clicked and gargled, hissed under a heavy breath, and Eddie was wholly captivated.

Silver like the wax of the stars, he was watched from the looming silhouettes of reaching branches, pin-sharp eyes never leaving his shaking form. The night was freezing, but over the heat of a pounding in his ears, Eddie could barely feel it. He approached languidly, a blanket of calm enveloping him in the face of the stalking beast.

What now, when he’d found his forever, beckoning to him ever so sweetly? How could he possibly think of leaving, when that might break the illusion of the dream? The figure lurking before him was tall, completely still, melting with the shadows that surrounded it. Eddie couldn’t decipher the angular planes of its face, the comet streaks and pale scars that marked its lithe body.

He only saw the eyes, and the glint of teeth.

Daring, he stepped ever closer. He wanted his boy back, he wanted Steve.

And, meeting him in the white of moonlight, was the very man he was wishing for. Impossibly, the ghost of war was blinking and breathing, smiling something small and distinctly off, though Eddie would never notice, not as he folded helplessly around him. Familiar arms held him up, supporting his jelly-soft bones, and he cried. A crooked nose prodded at his throat, digging into the warm junction of his shoulder, and Eddie cried some more, harder than he ever had in his life, so hard he felt it in his empty stomach. It made him feel like throwing up. He was sick with love.

Chapped lips scraped across chilled skin, dragging the points of fangs over his quick-beating pulse. A shroud swept over them, and it was darker than night, darker than the color black. In the pitch, Eddie gasped as he was held tighter, just on the verge of pain.

"Steve?" He murmured through the pouring of tears, and the man suddenly withdrew from him, and he could see clearly again the conflict in the light of his boyfriend’s hazel eyes, all too human. He’d already forgotten what they’d been like before.

"Go." Steve's voice was deep and growling, but Eddie couldn’t find it in himself to be scared. He thought anyone else would be, in their right mind. He also knew that Steve would never hurt him. To his panic, the younger began stepping further away, retreating back into the thicket of the woods.

"What? No, no," He begged, reaching for the other, "I'm not leaving. I can't leave you again."

"I have to go." Eddie grabbed his wrist before he could, and he finally noticed how bony it all felt, how skinny Steve had become. And as he slunk out of the moon’s glow, the softness of the creature’s face drew sharp, muscles flexing in rippled waves as his new body seemed to adjust to the shade. Eddie could feel the tendons under his grip twitch and pull, “I shouldn’t have come back. I don’t want to hurt you. I’m supposed to be dead—”

“Please don’t say that,” Eddie sobbed, wrestling himself against Steve’s chest. The cavity didn’t move under him, unbreathing, “Don’t you fucking say that. You’re not dead, you’re right here.” Wetting Steve’s bare shoulder with his snot and tears, he promised, “You’re meant to be with me. Here. Not anywhere else.”

In one swift motion, Steve’s chest caved in, a single blow of air, a single gulp of it back in, and he gathered Eddie’s trembling form in his bite-ridden arms, “Okay.”

Under a cloudless sky, they would go home together. Steve would not once shiver in the cold, and once inside, he would squint under the low-lights of the trailer, needle-thin pupils glaring red, only for a moment. Eddie would never notice.

———

crossposting from ao3, also technically a repost but i've deleted the original and reformatted some things. there might be a part2 in the works but i've yet to figure a proper ending...

[p1nkcanoe]

can the lonely take the place of you?

[ dewdrop x aether angst ]

summary: Dewdrop feels suffocated by the silent sound of loneliness and grief and wanders down into the same ballroom where he'd once danced with his now absent mate. warnings: mentions of death, grief, loneliness word count: 1750

Click here for AO3 or read below ⤵︎

Dew can’t sleep. His head won’t let him rest. The clock on the bedside table blinks red: 00:00. Casts eerie shadows into the textured ceiling of the hotel room. He’s suffocated by time. 

It’s been days, turned weeks, turned months since he’s been able to sleep, even rest his eyes for more than a half hour, and now it’s become a nightly habit to stare into the dark and try to make sense of the patterns in various hotel rooms. Sometimes it’s the texture of the carpet, the symmetry of the bathroom tiles, the print of the wallpaper… he stares until he’s memorized every centimeter and each imperfection. Tonight it’s the ceiling, stippled with plaster in irregular swoops and swirls. He tries to find clouds, petals of flowers, maybe even a strange resemblance of an animal, but no matter how hard he reaches he always sees him. 

Everything reminds him of him. He sees him in everything. Feels his phantom touch when he walks through the fog of the bathroom, when he fixes his belt in the morning… He’s always there, yet never at all. A million miles under the ground. Unreachable. 

They’d arrived late in the same town where they’d all celebrated only a year ago. The same hotel, the same halls, the same copied rooms placed side by side with nothing to distinguish them but a number. The same people, just two gone and two to replace them. A hole in the band patched by another body, but a wound in Dew’s soul that refuses to heal over like it has for the rest of them. It burns, hurts more than anything he’s ever felt before, and he hopes he never recovers. He wants to bleed forever. Spill, and bleed, and leave a trail so that everyone is reminded of what they took from him. Who they took from him. He can’t just move on like the rest of them. He’s already lost him once, losing the memory of him would surely kill him.

There’s a ballroom on the ground floor. A grand room with tall windows and chandeliers adorned with a thousand crystals each. A year ago they’d gathered there together as a pack with their papa, adorned in expensive suits and finery. They’d danced in the hall, drank together until they were bubbly and loose, and at the end of the night he’d retreated back to his room with him, and he’d asked him to be his mate. 

Tonight the rest of his pack had done the same. They’d dressed up in their best regalia and danced together in the ballroom. Dew didn’t go. He couldn’t make himself pull the suit from the hanger on the back of the door. He couldn’t push himself from the suffocating grip of the sheets. Even when they’d knocked and knocked and knocked on his door and asked him if he was coming he ignored them. Eventually they stopped asking altogether and he listened as they all left in a cluster to celebrate. The hall had been quiet for many hours until they slowly started filing back into their rooms, drunk and high on the night. 

The halls were quiet again now. They had been for a long while. The clock blinks red. The numbers are persistent: 00:00. They scream at him even when he puts his hands over his ears and squeezes tight until his head hurts. Dew’s lost all track of time. He aches with grief. 

The feeling in his chest tightens, grips his fragile rib cage in an iron grip that threatens to shatter it from all sides and Dew holds his breath until his lungs burn. It won’t be the first time his heart has shattered under the crushing weight of the silence and the darkness, and certainly not the last, but he told himself that he wouldn’t cry tonight. This was supposed to be a time to celebrate, to remember the good times, and reminisce on the feeling when Aether had grabbed his hand and asked him the question that finally made him whole. Of course that plan didn’t go exactly as he’d hoped, but he hadn’t broken again no matter how much he wanted to. Dew finally sucks in a breath that tears through the tightness of his throat, rips him apart, and a single tear gathers at the root of his lashes. He wipes it away with the back of his hand and counts the stipples in the ceiling. 

00:00

00:00

00:00

The clock keeps blinking red and he keeps losing his place. Each time he’s forced to restart. He never gets past three. 

He gets more and more frustrated with each flash. He knows counting is hopeless, that he’ll never be able to keep his place or even distract himself from what’s going on in his head and his heart, but he keeps trying anyway. The clock is taunting him tonight, screaming at him and reminding him of how alone he is in this room. He wants to rip the sheets between his claws as a brief relief, to throw the comforter to the floor, and lose the pillows to some dark corner of the room, but he knows that it won’t help. It won’t make him feel better–won’t make Aether come back… So he stays rooted to the mattress, his arms out to his sides and his fingers woven between folds of starchy fabric. He tries to count again. One, two, three, fo– 00:00. 

His chest aches, his throat tightens again, and his bare feet make contact with the carpet at the same time the clock blinks red again. He fumbles through the darkness, guided only by the artificial light and the moon’s beams that leak through the cracks in the curtain. He escapes through the door before the walls collapse on him and as the heavy wooden door locks him out the embellished suit hanging in its bag on the other side collapses in a heap on the floor. 

Dew lets his feet carry him through the halls that feel like an endless maze. He passes his packmates’ rooms, pays no attention to the numbers or the signs on the walls for navigation, just follows his instincts and relies on his heart to pull him to the right place. Around wallpapered corners, through iron doors, and down dusty stairwells until he pushes open towering mahogany doors and spills into the ballroom. 

The smell of old, expensive wood and dusty tiles hits him in the face at the same time his memory does. The room is pitch dark, illuminated solely by the moonlight that spills through tall windows and the faint haze from the emergency sign at the opposite end. Red. The darkness taunts him, taints his memory. The tile is frigid under his feet, cuts through his skin straight to the boil of his blood, and the heat of his vessel only makes it worse. Some of his steps are wet as he pads through puddles of water left not yet dry. He barely registers them, too caught up in the flood of emotion and longing for someone who is absent, someone who used to be here. Right here. In this very room, walking these same steps on the same vanilla tiles. If he closes his eyes he imagines that he can still hear the music over the sound of his footsteps and the loneliness that followed him out of bed. The ballroom is somehow quieter than his room. Everything echoes. Everything dies in mid-air. But something here lives. It lives in here, in him. It is him. 

He lets his feet guide him to the spot on the floor where Aeth had asked for his hand. He’d laughed, thought it was the dumbest request in the world. To dance. Dew doesn’t dance. At least not vulnerable and surrounded by strangers… But that night he did. And he loved it–every precious second of it. They danced until their feet hurt and their cheeks ached from smiling. Aether had spun him on his toes, gripped him by his slender waist, wrapped his strong arms around his belly as they swayed to a beat entirely different from the song that played overhead. Completely lost in their own world, in love. And they laughed and they giggled as if there was nobody else there, just them under the bright, glittering lights of the chandeliers. 

And this time there’s nobody there to hold him when he finds the divot in the tile he tripped over so many times. He feels so empty, incomplete, without him. He has for a long while. But the feeling is suffocating now. There’s a dagger in his heart and a rock in his throat that hasn’t gone away in weeks. The ballroom makes it twist, makes the stone grow and grow and grow until his eyes sting and his lip trembles between his teeth. But he won’t let himself cry. Not yet. Not now. He swallows it down but it doesn’t budge. 

He follows his heart to the center of the floor, follows his ghost in his reflection in the tiles until he recognizes the spiral that Aether spun him on. He traces it with his toe before vaguely recalling the steps they took together to dance. It comes back to him gradual and slow until he finds himself dancing by himself. Aeth is there in his mind, in his soul, in spirit, holding him so gentle by the waist and peering over his shoulder to watch his beautiful face. He’s smiling, he can see it. It makes his lips twitch up. 

Dew gets lost in it. He spins in circles, lets his arms reach out for his mate to grab onto and pin to the small of his back. He glides and travels across the tiles in the same pattern that he did before, remembering how warm his skin felt against his back and pressed against his chest as he fell in love. He gets lost in time, lost in the memory, lost in the darkness… So much so that he doesn’t realize when he starts to finally cry. 

His toe gets stuck in the divot–just like it had so many times before– and when he opens his eyes and expects to see a room full of people and Aeth there with strong arms ready to catch him, he sobs when nobody is there and his knees make contact with the floor.

title and inspiration taken from "the lonely" by christina perri. mv included below:

[tma-entity-song-poll]

Battle of the Fear Bands B2R4: The Corruption

BlackBoxWarrior:

“A song about a man struggling with his health (be it mental or physical). The song makes the treatment seem inhumane and just as terrifying as the initial problem. It’s almost like he’s getting sicker and sicker but just won’t die.”

Thermodynamic Lawyer:

““Disease is her primary language” - every line of this is filled with rot and disease and bugs and it’s 100% corruption.”

Lyrics below the line!

BlackBoxWarrior - OKULTRA:

Well he collapsed with Stevens-Johnson Syndrome on the E.R. floor Panic attacked, anaphylactic and ataxic The way he spun his butterfly risked all six his phalanges Roman candles at both ends in his synapses And the method with which he recycled his humors Trojan Horse'd his Blood-Brain Barrier and raised the LD-50, yes, yes And through flight-or-fight revelation shame the Black Box Warrior He skipped this town and headed straight down history Shields himself from reason in a Kevlar baby-blue Tuxedo Quilted from the finest fibers, flesh, and fiberglass, and flowers His ego a mosquito, evil incarnate good incognito Pops placebos for libido, screaming, "Bless the torpedoes"

For what? For what? For what it's worth If it was going to kill you boy, it would have by now For what? For what? For what it's worth There's no more looking back, it's looking up or looking down

Well, he was wearing stolen rubber shoes and wrapped a poison ivy noose Around his Lotus jugular when they came Well, they found him with a map to every victim of his love And a tattoo of a blue jay on his face And they waited for his vital signs to lie and let a flatline cry A hymn out in Hungarian Harmonic But he cocked his noggin, through his stoma sang, "For auld lang syne" "Happy birthday to the succulents, I'll die your hydroponics" His rib cage was a hornet's nest, palpitations set the beat His vagus nerve a turk's head knot, an axel hitch, a carrick bend He wondered if Christ Consciousness would charge a cancellation fee Auf wiedersehn, au revoir, he gripped his wits right by their ends

For what? For what? For what it's worth If it was going to kill you boy, it would have by now For what? For what? For what it's worth There's no more looking back, it's looking up or looking down

Hello, welcome, why don't you take a seat? Get comfortable, relax, take a second if you need to Now what's bothering you? Well, why don't we start at the beginning Growing up, how was your relationship with the fundamentals of conscious existence? Did you have xenon orchid sinews spilling down the outer center of your Blooming Escher/Mandelbrot head? And how about claustrophilic tendrils clapping caskets closed on seven-knuckle thumbs Did you get along well with the Gideon Bugler pineal glands? Your projector eyes casting sci-fi's on your STR'd strands? Tell me about your nerve to steal nerves of steel from under Bacchus' bloody nose Did Namibian Himbas tie-dye you, your ears pierced with a Phineas Gage flagpole Did you die before your day? Thursday traction, Tuesday titration My hope is to assess through my objective report of Your subjective conjecture Whether this proprietary bled of expertise and seasoning works as well as this Transorbital ice pick Holistic ballistics, you got a better idea? It's about the best we could come up with, what, you think ideas spread because they're good? No, they spread because people like them So now here we are once again, holding As it were, a mirror up to your mirror I guess it's just something people do

A bloody knife to split your infrastructure, wine to rev your motor function Coital machinations of the dead Well, you mainline your animus, karate chop your abacus And learn to be an animal instead But I never did think you better than this, your modus operandi causes Nazi/Skoptzyism and suicide Why to thine own self be true when it is you who are the problem Not the things you do but something sick inside Lithium and Dialectics, boy you really is defective CBT don't seem effective for that Cluster B, accept it Offer up your innocence, please ignore the side effects You've lost your mind and almost lost your life before So you'll be fine

For what? For what? For what it's worth If it was going to kill you boy, it would have by now For what? For what? For what it's worth There's no more looking back, and why would you want to look back? I mean, it's no good looking back, so try to look forward now For what? For what? For what it's worth If they were going to get you boy, they would have by now For what? For what? For what it's worth There's no more looking back, it's looking up or looking down…

Thermodynamic Lawyer Esq, G.F.D:

(I hold myself in contempt) Tearing the hair off a black baboon's skull Here's a bitch with some four-thousand names Vomiting lies through her theremin throat As some businessmen pick at her brains Pulls back skinny lips to reveal a proboscis Seems Seth Brindle's at it again Tears pages from spines as she judges the cover And shamelessly spoils the end Blood vessels drying and curling inside are Unfurling from out of her wrists Well, she wrings out a snake and collects all its poison Intending to learn it to hiss Foams at the mouth with a head full of acid And giving some poor illness the blame Knocking the pieces the fuck off the chessboard Insisting that she's won the game So all that I see absolute entropy As the chemical bonds fall apart Well, it seems she broke me But I swear she could not break my heart She could not break my heart, oh lord Makes up excuses for throbbing black bruises And uses them to her advantage Never came down from her last trip, oh Jesus Disease is her primary language Garbled and gruesome, her words so absurd Like a herd of transmissions from Apollo 13 No apology, I request misery So no rest 'til I've twisted her chest round my knee So squeal like a trolley wheel, cry like a baby With autism strapped to a ceiling fan Soil your visage with mucus and twisting of features unable to stand Buckle your knees looking up at me And beg me to spare thee the back of my hand For the sake of humanity, die of your blight We're blessed, you're barren as Mojave sands So all that I see absolute entropy As the chemical bonds fall apart Well, it seems she broke me But I swear she could not break my heart, whoa Now all that I see absolute entropy As the chemical bonds fall apart Well, it seems she broke me But I swear, she can go fucking die (kill yourself) You can go fucking die (kill yourself) Go fucking die (kill yourself) Kill yourself and go die

[fading-heart-dummy]

well he collapsed with Stevens-Johnson Syndrome on the ER floor!!

panic attacked, anaphylactic and ataxis

well the way he spun his butterfly risked all six his phalanges

Roman candles at both ends in his synapses!!

And the method with which he recycled his humors

Trojan horse'd his blood-brain barrier and raised the LD-50, yes, yes

And through his fight or flight revelation shame the Black Box Warrior, he skipped this town and headed straight down history!

Shields himself from reason in a Kevlar baby-blue Tuxedo

Quilted from the finest fibers, flesh, and fiberglass, and flowers

His ego a mosquito, evil incarnate good incognito

Pops placebos for libido, screaming, "Bless the torpedoes"

For what? For what? For what it's worth

If it was going to kill you boy, it would have by now

For what? For what? For what it's worth

There's no more looking back, it's looking up or looking down

Well, he was wearing stolen rubber shoes and wrapped a poison ivy noose

Around his Lotus jugular when they came

Well, they found him with a map to every victim of his love

And a tattoo of a blue jay on his face

And they waited for his vital signs to lie and let a flatline cry

A hymn out in Hungarian Harmonic

But he cocked his noggin, through his stoma sang, "For auld lang syne"

"Happy birthday to the succulents, I'll die your hydroponics"

His rib cage was a hornet's nest, palpitations set the beat

His vagus nerve a turk's head knot, an axel hitch, a carrick bend

He wondered if Christ Consciousness would charge a cancellation fee

Auf wiedersehn, au revoir, he gripped his wits right by their ends

For what? For what? For what it's worth

If it was going to kill you boy, it would have by now

For what? For what? For what it's worth

There's no more looking back, it's looking up or looking down

Hello, welcome, why don't you take a seat?

Get comfortable, relax, take a second if you need to

Now what's bothering you? Well, why don't we start at the beginning

Growing up, how was your relationship with the fundamentals of conscious existence?

Did you have xenon orchid sinews spilling down the outer center of your

Blooming Escher/Mandelbrot head?

And how about claustrophilic tendrils clapping caskets closed on seven-knuckle thumbs

Did you get along well with the Gideon Bugler pineal glands?

Your projector eyes casting sci-fi's on your STR'd strands?

Tell me about your nerve to steal nerves of steel from under Bacchus' bloody nose

Did Namibian Himbas tie-dye you, your ears pierced with a Phineas Gage flagpole

Did you die before your day?

Thursday traction, Tuesday titration

My hope is to assess through my objective report of

Your subjective conjecture

Whether this proprietary bled of expertise and seasoning works as well as this

Transorbital ice pick

Holistic ballistics, you got a better idea?

It's about the best we could come up with, what, you think ideas spread because they're good?

No, they spread because people like them

So now here we are once again, holding

As it were, a mirror up to your mirror

I guess it's just something people do

A bloody knife to split your infrastructure, wine to rev your motor function

Coital machinations of the dead

Well, you mainline your animus, karate chop your abacus

And learn to be an animal instead

But I never did think you better than this, your modus operandi causes

Nazi/Skoptzyism and suicide

Why to thine own self be true when it is you who are the problem

Not the things you do but something sick inside

Lithium and Dialectics, boy you really is defective

CBT don't seem effective for that Cluster B, accept it

Offer up your innocence, please ignore the side effects

You've lost your mind and almost lost your life before

So you'll be fine

For what? For what? For what it's worth

If it was going to kill you boy, it would have by now

For what? For what? For what it's worth

There's no more looking back, and why would you want to look back?

I mean, it's no good looking back, so try to look forward now

For what? For what? For what it's worth

If they were going to get you boy, they would have by now

For what? For what? For what it's worth

There's no more looking back, it's looking up or looking down !!!

(I'm so sorry)

I have been looking at this to see what the reference is but I'm not cultured enough to see what-

[self-shipping-doll13]

Sunken Graves

November Prompts

Wc: 2540

Tw: Lawrence Being Creepy, Dead Bird

Veils of cobweb draped over an iron wrought fence, frail threads of gossamer that sparkled with dew.

The entrance gate shrieked as it was forced to gape open. We passed into that shadowy realm. Him, a cheerless psychopomp. Me, the dead soul drifting by his side. Observing things, not interacting with them, on the cusp of an existence but not quite there

The stuffy, humid greenhouse atmosphere I’d been kept in for the last few months had suffocated me. Now the air I breathed in was crisp and smokey. It reeked of neglect, of wet mossy stone and crushed grass. I gulped it greedily, fearing I might never know it again.

Spring was the last time I had been outside. My colour for that season was yellow; buttery streaks of sunlight, melting Easter eggs, Wordsworth’s golden daffodils. Summer grew jaundiced, and Autumn was lapsing into amber pill boxes and The Cure records. A carpet of leaves was strewn over the cemetery grounds, the dying embers of its fire. Ruthless gales scattered them, and made the petals of flowers lain on the graves flutter like injured butterflies. Bent trees stretched their naked limbs out in search of all they’d lost.

As Winter slowly edged closer, the evening air held a chilling bite, and the sky was a dark, foreboding grey, steadily falling into ever darker shades. It was not closing time for a while yet, but as this late in the year, the night fell soon and silently. It was the earliest Lawrence would brave the world of the living. A world of bustle and colour, one that held no place for either of us any longer. Stopping, he stood there, staring out at the bleak landscape with a strange intensity. After a moment, he turned back to me, a hesitant smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"I thought... maybe we could take a walk," Lawrence said to me, his soft voice almost lost in the rustling. He gestured vaguely behind him, towards a dense stand of bare branches. "It's not far from here. Just through those trees, and then a bit up the hill…"

I didn’t answer. Spun up in one of his coats, I was a fly in a spider’s cocoon.

His grip tightened, icy fingers curled around my wrist like a manacle. He led me along with measured steps, and I trailed numbly behind him.

When he first told me of his intention to take me out of the apartment for sunlight and fresh air, I thought it must have been a dream I’d woken up in. As he must’ve thought over it quite carefully, Lawrence also drove carefully. He often cast sideways glances towards my hands, which I kept tucked safely in my lap, in full visibility to keep on his good side. The roads had been slippery and greasy, and beams of yellowy light poured down from early-lit lamps as we’d spilled out into the carpark. Already the day was that dim.

Trail, trail, trail. Slimy wooden benches rotted along the path, which he deviated from, following the footfalls of his own shoes as I followed him. Leaves shifted restlessly at our feet, skirling in the wind. I thought I felt a phantom’s sigh fanning onto my cheeks, the last exhale of a dying man. And I saw it. There, a mound of freshly dug up soil where a plot was marked out with stakes and strings. A new grave, yawning open to receive its victim. There was a kind of twisting inside my rib cage. Briefly, I felt the frantic thumping of a rabbit that had been caught in a snare. Lawrence did notice my discomfort as he brought me away.

“Ah… I like this time of year,” he remarked absentmindedly. He weaved between the tombstones, seeming familiar with the layout. “It’s silent. No one comes here anymore. No one ever bothers me.”

“I think I know what you mean,” I said quietly, through dry, chapped lips. “Autumn was my favourite season.”

“Autumn,” he repeated the word, almost with a sense of reverence, as if it was a sacred thing to him.

“For me it was the colours,” I whispered. “The way everything looks as if it’s burning, on fire... I found this leaf once, from a maple tree, and it looked just like a bloody handprint. With the thin red veins spilling out…” With a pounding heart, I tried to convince myself that there was something grimly freeing in our journey—I was literally close to being free—and perhaps with it, I’d mistake his grip on my life’s thread to be slackening.

“You could always tell…” Yellow Springtime strands were tossed into his pale face as he spoke to me. “That nature was finally being honest with you. Finally honest about dying. No more lies from flowers. Fall is the truth, in all its raw, rotten beauty…”

The sharp twinge of a familiar sentiment hit me, a sickly sweet odour. The stench of all those flowers on all those graves. Flowers are liars, he’d told me.

Why was I beginning to speak just like him?

"Everything just gives up,” Lawrence breathed, in a soft, dreamy cadence. “And the cold helps it all go peacefully." There was a placid smile on his mouth.

A cruel dream this must’ve been, to tempt me with false freedoms.

Shivering, I bowed my head beneath the entangled archway of black branches that formed the true gate of the spirit world. Onwards, we crested a small hill. Lawrence did not like people, and to his relief no signs of life stirred, too daunted by the cold. I should've been glad he wasn’t anxious, pulling me along with a vice-like harshness and clammy hands. But in that isolation, I realised that his unusual confidence was very justified. It would be so easy to hold his hand over my mouth, knock me out, kill and bury me… It was only the dead here, and my scream would have been paid less heed than a crow’s scream. From this new vantage point, the sight of the deserted graveyard felt nearly apocalyptic, an empty husk of land lying defeated under a pall of nuclear winter.

Harsh gusts assaulted me on the way down. We crossed by a path and his hiking boots crunched on the hard gravel, fading to a whisper once we returned to weedy, overgrown grass. "We're almost there. It's a good spot... I think you'll like it,” he told me.

Then, in a secluded area of the cemetery, Lawrence halted again. My trainers squelched into the damp, marshy ground and wetness trickled into my socks.

Puddles swollen with Autumn rain had funnelled into a depression in the land. Charon’s ferries of fallen leaves floated across it, White lichen spotted gravestones that were sunken into the half-buried skull of the earth like a row of crooked teeth. Their ancient inscriptions were long faded, barely decipherable. Iron spikes were impaling a dead end. Overlooking us, a gnarled oak tree reached out skeletal fingers to the heavens.

"You see this place? It’s quiet, just like how I wanted to keep you—away from the noise of the world."

A sobbing tremor rose from within. I gnawed my lip.

“It's... I've had my eyes on it for ages, waiting for the right time to take you here,” he began slowly, his gaze drifting over the old, abandoned tombstones. “It feels so untouched. Private, I guess. like no one's ever bothered to pay it any mind. But I did. I did…”

“Wait, you’ve thought of this for a while?” I was bewildered, it seemed so unexpected for him.

“Y-yeah, a long time.” He rubbed his arm nervously, and then gave a little smile. “I watched you.”

Lawrence was talking quickly, startled, as if afraid he had betrayed something. "From a distance. The first time I saw you, in the park. I just…” He looked away. “Watched from a distance, like an animal watches another animal… You see, it all became so much clearer once you came along. Everything just..." He then glanced back at me, with an odd sense of determination. "It became so much clearer."

I hugged myself. Was that why he’d dragged me out here? To explain himself, to justify it? It was more unsettling that I didn’t recall seeing him at the park. .

“You had such a normal life. You were so normal. But I could tell that underneath there was something…”

“You already found it,” I said, willing it to be over soon.

Lawrence leaned back his head, slowly and silently, staring up at the big sad sky, a plant searching for sun. I wanted to scream into it but I knew that I couldn’t.

“I don’t think so,” he said flatly. “But I will.”

Nothing was real and nothing about this was like two real humans interacting. I was given the impression of two walkers passing each other but never meeting.

Suddenly when I took a whiff of the fresh air it was not so fresh. It stank foully, like the old decaying corpses buried in the damp earth. With trembling hands, I gripped a slate headstone and almost expected it to lower into the sludge. My feet felt heavy like I was being held down by cinder blocks. I shifted, making gross sucking noises with my mucky shoes.

“When I go out, it’s like I can see things around me falling apart,” he began. “Nothing can stop it.”

Lawrence stooped low. When he got back up he held in his hand a ruffled bundle of moist, tawny feathers. Because one of Lawrence’s 27 books contained an encyclopaedia on species of common birds and their physical characteristics, I saw it was a sparrow.

A dead one. It lay lifeless in his palm. Uneasy, I huddled in my borrowed coat. “Yeah?”

He studied the corpse. “It’s a slow degradation. Slowly, but I, ah… feel it… This bird, and you, too. I’ve watched you for a long time. Degrading slowly…”

Lawrence was glaring like a lizard up at me from underneath his eyelids. Mentally he dissected me, piece by piece, as I stood there in my cerements.

“Do you understand me, Jasmine?”

Though I didn’t, I nodded. Before, I might’ve flinched.

But I couldn’t stop looking at the dead bird. There was a sense of profound wrongness in him cradling it like that in his naked hands. Briefly I wondered to myself if he needed to be concerned about washing them after touching animal remains like most people did. Somehow I thought not. Living things perished when forced to be near Lawrence. Flies dropped dead all over the apartment when they were unlucky enough to take shelter inside, though he had not the awareness to kill them. Spiders too, curled up in balls of legs.

It was for the same reason why food would rot too quickly around him, condemning us both to a diet of cheap plastic and grease. Looking at him now, I saw it in the wan pallor of him, in the hollows of his face, and knew he belonged here in this garden of bones.

And maybe now I did too.

Lawrence’s smile was almost hopeful. “That’s good. That’s good… It’s hard to live in a city… Or to just exist at all. Loud, frightening people and busy roads…”

“It’s safer for you to be mine,” he said, and the finality of his words seemed to reverberate off the trees. A minute later, he bit his lip. “But I guess it’s also unhealthy for you to be inside all the time. You need the sunlight to grow, and rain. Or you’ll...”

He trailed off, and then there it was. That meek downcast gaze, like he didn’t just drill right down to the marrow of my bone with those knives. Lawrence put down the dead sparrow, slipping it into a foetid pool. I was relieved that he left it to decompose in the soil.

He had let go of my wrist.

Realising it, I didn’t think of how much distance I could put between myself and him if I ran fast enough. I could never run fast enough. Lost in thought, I knelt to pick up a fallen acorn. It shone like burnished bronze. Or maybe it was the sheen of unshed tears. Wiping them away, I stuffed the acorn into the coat pocket, rubbing my thumb on the smooth sloping shape of it.

“You’re very fragile,” said Lawrence. “That’s why.”

A fine breeze caressed my hair. His long, cool fingers slid through the strands and clasped gently onto my nape, as one might paralyse an unruly kitten.

“When you cry…” Lawrence could have easily snapped my neck. “It’s special. I think you’re most beautiful when that happens. The way your throat constricts, and your cheeks are warm and red with blood… You’re like these leaves.” He captured a stray one twirling and crushed it, frail and rotting to dust in his hand.

“Getting under shoes, being crushed and destroyed. You’re just withering away and you don’t even know it. It’s lovely. I could… I could destroy you, if I wanted to.”

Lawrence’s mutterings ceased.

“Are you happy?” He asked.

The sharp acrid air of the season had sobered me. Now with clarity I looked around myself at the Autumn, at the rejoicing of a hundred thousand carrion feeders.

“Yes,” I decided, all my tears dried out and drained. “I’m glad to be out here… I mean, with you.”

His cheeks flushed and he looked away shyly.

“You’re fragile.” Blissfully serene, he said it again, as if he was close to reaching an epiphany. “It’s strange. I don’t want that to happen to you. At least, not yet…”

A plaintive sigh echoed once more, chasms opening up for me deep down in that hallowed earth. Weak, I wavered into the sickly sweet scent of his jacket.

Lawrence smelled like Autumn and Autumn smelled like him. Only as tender as its cruelty, the burning of the wind stung in my eyes. I wanted to ask him to hug me, or maybe kiss me. Not because I wanted it from him but because I wanted it. The single acorn in my pocket reminded me that I had one wish, and only one.

“Lawrence… I think I’d like to go home now.”

When I thought of home, I thought of burying my face into warm cat fur. The soft, purring vibrations.

I thought of trudging home in the snow in the too-early, late year, Winter darkness, and hanging up my keys.

I thought of the open grave waiting for me.

So I barely even registered what his answer was.

Did it even make a difference anymore? No. Lawrence’s cold fingers clamped around my wrist, and I hurried to keep up with his long strides.

Home, home, home, h-o-m-e. My numb tongue formed around the phantom of the syllables. Suddenly then I thought of hypothermia. Winter was in my path, and I thought of Lawrence’s deathlike enveloping me, submerging me in pale lethargy. Disoriented, the victim would strip until naked. They would surrender, and they would long to lie down, to sleep, to die.

Which is why I got it for my 22nd birthday.

Dividers @/thecutestgrotto

[bells-of-black-sunday]

@witchcraftandburialdirt

This meant to be an ask for when Egg re-opened their inbox, but- it turned into something more. Anyway here's some uhh- very normal content.

The sun hung high at its apex and filtered down through the trees to rest against his scales and dapple against Haru's warm skin, Tarhos could lay still like this forever; watching the brush smooth over his scales like a monk writing scripture. His body was a divine canvas for his priest to worship, he was no stranger to the way his fingers brushed over his muscle, the brush highlighting the shape with dots and petals.... The darkin's blood filled gaze watched, waited really, feeling the blooms of affection in their shared mind to flower and turn into something more. Love. Adoration. Every positive feeling he could drink to ignore how good his pulse sounded right then.

The brush trailed down to the back of his scaled hand and soon found its way between Haru's canines. That cornflower gaze fixed so calmly on the claws in his fingers as he gently massaged his palm open bristling at the quiet sigh he got from Tarhos in response. Only then did the brush return to his hand and begin to paint again. Fine lines that made regal patterns of gold that glistened in the light. More blossoms of pleasure flooded between the two of them at his work. Pride. Only when the last brush stroke was painted did the brush meet the water and the darkin watched him clean the bristles.

His soft hands trailing over the handle and to the tip, shaping them to be wrapped and dried. The ink always dried quickly on his skin just as the vayatan's soft hands were quick to return. Haru's hands held his beak, drinking his gaze like communion, but never spilling a word from the space they shared. How fortunate he was that all those years ago fate let them stitch their souls together and meld with the fabric of time. Another thread to the tapestry until Wolf's teeth came for their throats and still they'd fight. Tarhos pulled his beak away, lifting his arm to allow him into his grasp.

Tangling their limbs together trying to carve him open and crawl inside the ribs that caged his heart. That wonderful thing that fluttered in his ears and throbbed against his teeth. He could hear the soft gasp far before he smelled the blood from a bitten lip. His tongue made short work of it lapping at his wound like it were wine, healing it with the very essence that chained their bodies together. The vastayan practically purred those talons curling under the plates on his neck and soon his fingers danced around his vents trying to capture the smoke like it was the very air he breathed in.

Tarhos hummed, more blossoms of pleasure. More blossoms of being content, every wave a new sensation across his mind. His tongue found its way across his pulse pressing against it just watch the way his beloved's head tilted to the side freely offering his veins to the daggers so tantalizingly close. Haru's body was a canvas painted beautifully by the rivers that gave him life and fed the darkin so wonderfully, he planned to trace every inch of it in worship. Those serrated daggers sunk easily into his shoulder feeling his body tense and those claws sink deeper into his vents.

More pleasure. His name echoing between their minds like a prayer as his tongue gracefully lapped at the crimson ichor, those panted breaths that made his fins lower and his eyes close. He tasted so sweet. Tarhos's tongue languished over his wounds sighing into him as he pulled their flesh closer together, his claws ached to sink into something soft and yet he held him as if he were made of glass. The most sacred being he'd ever have the privilege of holding over and over again. Another echo of his name and the wounds sealed. A delicacy to be savored, but not one he got to experience often.

The darkin shifted curling his body around his cooing to the bird as lips met his teeth. There was something more important than hearing his quickened breaths to be held in the vastayan's pale gaze, every flutter of his lash and his demure smiles.... No he was meant to be cherished forever.

[papasbaseball]

Secondo x OC (Dead Ghuleh Walking)

+18 CONTENT NOT FOR MINORS. MINORS KEEP SCROLLING

Pairing: Secondo x OC(Libitina)

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Blood, Biting, Zombies.

Summary: Sister Libitina's heart has been heavy ever since the Papas died. An innocent paying of respects quickly turns into a graveyard chase as Papa Secondo, back from the dead, looks to make her his Zombie Queen.

Word Count: 3,495

Notes: This is the last of my fics that needed to be migrated over from AO3. Another thank you to @princess-nope for letting me borrow Sister Libitina. She's seriously the coolest OC. Please go check out her stuff.

Translations at the end

AO3 Link

The cemetery was an ugly sight in the daytime. Tombstones were covered in grit and grime, names no longer readable, not a single one of them straight. In the cloak of night, it would scare even the bravest of souls. Gnarled trees played tricks on the mind and looked like hideous twisted demons walking amongst the dead, seeking out souls to steal that dared to leave their graves. The fog that settled in that evening was thick enough that the dead could slip out of their eternal resting places and walk amongst the living, worry-free that their souls might be devoured. For Libitina, however, it made the walk back to the Ministry one of peril. Her boots squished in the mud as she stepped, not even able to see her hand in front of her. The night had been pleasant and clear when she’d gone out to set up for the graveside service earlier.

She had watched with dread as the fog swept over the grave and attendants. While it had lent a spooky aura to the funeral of the late Cardinal Giacomo, it was nowhere near as fantastic as the funeral had been for the three Emeritus brothers earlier that month. Everybody that called the Ministry home was in attendance, the wailing so profound that there had been a late night knocking upon the main door by police to make sure that everything was okay. Papa Emeritus Primo’s gardens had been cleared out of every flower so they could be strewn in a massive pile at the foot of the three ornately carved statues that took the place of tombstones.

Cresting a hill, Libitina could see better. Up ahead stood those very statues. They were remarkable compared to the rest of the bygone papas, still clean and white as if free from sin. Having all three clean at once drove a knife into the congregation's heart. Their deaths had been unexpected, all that is except for Papa Emeritus Secondo. From the tales she had heard of the nurses that attended to him in his last few days, he had been delirious and sickly pale. They would bring him his meals up from the kitchen and he would try to bite the poor serving girls that dared show any kindness to him. His death had not been a surprise.

In a foolish moment of sympathy, she strayed from the path, wandering into the thick fog that shrouded the stone feet of the effigies. She waved and batted at the fog, to no avail, as she got closer. The ground was cold when her knees met it and there were still a few scattered dead flowers left over from the funeral service. Gathering what she could, she made a bouquet and said a quiet prayer for the eldest brother. He had been a friend and mentor, often working with the funeral team at the Ministry to preserve the grounds and provide modest floral arrangements when called for.

“Can you take care of him?” she had asked the other sister who had been assigned to help with embalming that day. “I’m feeling light-headed. I’ll be back in a minute.” Being surrounded by death was one thing, seeing the man who had taken her under his wing lifeless on the table was another. She had run outside the prep room as the walls felt like they were closing in around her, a desperate need to escape overtaking her as her heart pounded against her rib cage. The tears had tried to spill forth, but she tilted her head up and blinked them back. Her mortuary sister was a gossip, most of them were.

In the shroud of the fog, she let herself cry freely for the first time since the day he’d been declared dead. The only people around to judge her were the deceased and everyone knew that they didn’t talk. She pressed a kiss to the stone, setting the flowers at the stone hem of his robe.

“I miss you, old friend.”

She wiped her tears and gripped the cold monument, helping herself up to move to the next memorial. Her stomach dropped and her foot slipped. Her fingers clawed at the rough unhewn stone as she scrambled back up onto the safety of Primo’s grave.

“Lucifer below-” She knelt on the ground once more, this time feeling for where to avoid as she left the gravesite. She sucked in a breath when she felt the ledge and drop off. She crawled along the grave of the second oldest brother, hand following the ledge all the way down the plot.

Grave robbing? It was unheard of, especially for one of the Papas. They had taught her about it in her apprenticeship but always assured her that it would never happen. It was a dishonorable tradition abandoned at least a hundred years ago. Her mind raced as she wondered what to do. If she went to get help, they might question what she was doing straying from the path.

She pushed herself back up once more, realizing there was nothing she could do until that damn fog cleared. There was no way of knowing if they had even taken anything. Dusting her hands together to clean them of the dirt, she resolved to come back in the morning, before anyone else had woken, to properly assess the damage. Slipping between the monuments, she made her way back to the path.

She jumped when she spotted him.

“Brother Gregor, that's not funny! Did you see who did this to Papa Secondo’s grave?”

Brother Gregor stood there silently. He had always been the dark, hulking, and silent type, but was never hesitant when questioned. She swallowed hard, moving forward to question him again. Her palms dampened with sweat, but if anyone knew what had happened here it would be him. Perhaps he was hiding from the culprits?

“Brother-”

He had seen better days. His papal paint was smeared and runny and his cheeks were hollowed from his illness like the nurses had gossiped about in the common room. His funerary robes were soaked and covered in mud, and his hands were as well. If she didn’t know any better, she would say that he had punched and clawed his way out of the ground, but that was impossible. The weight of the earth alone would be enough to keep even the strongest of men buried six feet under. His body must have been propped up against the monument by some novitiate on a disrespectful hazing dare.

“Papa,” her voice broke, “how could they do this to you? It’s not right.”

Her hand reached out to swipe away a wet raindrop full of paint when he caught her arm. His eyes flashed open to reveal both of them flooded with blood, even his signature white eye. The gaze was vacant but hungry and it turned something deep inside her as her mind told her to run. Everyone had thought of him at least once in that way, she had told herself. He was the tallest of the Emeritus brothers and his discerning look had turned more than one sibling’s legs to jelly and flooded their stomachs with butterflies. Even now she could feel the infamous butterflies beating their little devilish wings against her rib cage. Still, she tried to break free.

Secondo, stronger than ever, threw her up against his grave marker. “Ghuleh,” he said, stumbling over the syllables. Whatever had happened to him, he was no longer the Papa that he once was. His grip was iron and inescapable as she struggled against it, his fingers tightening to the point it felt like he might crush her wrist.

“Papa, what happened? I saw them bury you. You were dead. I-“

Secondo growled at this. It was an awful bone-chilling growl, half wounded animal and half stones scraping together. His bloodied eyes flashed with rage leaving Libitina to guess his meaning.

I wonder if he knows he’s supposed to be dead? What if this is some sort of shapeshifter that’s taken his place? But then why would the grave be open? Whether he was really undead or a shapeshifter didn’t matter as she gritted her teeth, pain shooting from her wrist. It would be best not to bring up his death again.

His free hand roamed her body, squeezing the curve and form of it. “Ghuleh,” he groaned again, this time more smoothly. A breathy moan escaped her as he pressed her between his body and the hard stone. He was cold, but that didn’t stop the blood from rushing to her core as those hungry eyes looked down on her, a bloody smile spreading across his lips. “Ghuleh w-want.”

She could feel his cock underneath his robes pressing into her stomach. It was everything she could do to remain standing on her feet, going slack in his grip. She had given up the chance of ever sharing his bed the day they had all died, but it seemed Satan had other plans for her.

He released his grip to slide his hands down her legs, hoisting her up so her hips met his. He paused, words trying to form in his undead brain. “Ghuleh want?” he asked again, this time the inflection more like a question. He loosened his grip a bit and his gaze softened, though the hunger remained.

She smoothed her hands down the muddied and wet brocade, debating the ethical implications of fucking an undead satanic pope. Fuck it. “Yes, Papa. Please fuck me,” she blurted out before she could take the words back. She looked back up into his eyes, asserting her words.

He hoisted her onto the plinth of the monument, gloved hand snaking its way under the skirt of her habit. His fingers curled into the waistband of her panties and quickly tugged on it, ripping it at the side seams away from her body. He was urgent, like a wolf that hadn’t eaten in days, his tongue lapped at the damp spot on her underwear before throwing it to the ground, craving the source of his desire instead. There was no warm breath against her thighs and she jumped when his cold tongue slithered up her folds, flattening against her clit. A gentle kiss was the only warning she got before Secondo growled, slurping at the small trickle of wetness that had already escaped Libitina’s folds. “Ghuleh- G-Good. W-arm.”

She moaned at the praise, letting her head rest against the stone folds of the statue’s robes. Tossing the front panel of her skirt aside to watch him devour her, she couldn’t help but rake her sharp talons against his paint-blackened scalp. “More, Papa. Please.”

He looked up at her, slowly comprehending her words. “More? Ghuleh… Hungry?”

“Yes, please,” she blushed. She pressed lightly on the back of his head, urging him back to his feast. “I’m starving, Papa.”

He latched onto her clit, flicking his cold tongue against her warm bundle of nerves. She shuddered, but pressed his head further in, rolling her hips as he sucked against her. He kissed and nibbled, stroking his tongue slowly down each side of her clit until she was on the precipice, nails digging into his scalp.

“N-Not yet,” he said, out of breath from his attention. He brought two gloved fingers up to her and delved them into her warmth. Drawing them back out, he separated them, undead fingers slightly trembling, to reveal the shiny strings of her slick that spun themselves like a spider web between the two digits. “Ghuleh ready.”

Secondo gently guided Libitina toward the edge of the plinth and supported her as she slid back down the stone block into his grasp. His hands slid down to her knees, groaning at the effort. “Hold…” he managed.

Libitina followed his command to the best of her abilities, wrapping her legs around him and taking hold of his shoulders. Once more he swept away the front panel of her skirt and hiked up his own robe to reveal his cock. A chill ran up her spine at the girth and how the veins seemed to run a dark green of something that was not blood. The flesh itself had the pallor of death and, when he lined himself up with her, she could feel the chill of death begging for entrance into her throbbing cunt.

“Papa-”

“Riscaldami, Ghuleh.”

He sank in slowly, a hiss slurring into a growl as he split her open. She clenched around him, his cock searing her inside. His mouth was slack and agape as he bottomed out.

“Papa, ah! It’s so deep.” She clenched again, her pussy trying so hard to bring some warmth back into the undead intrusion. Her lip quivered as she looked into those blood-red eyes, any human warmth gone.

“Ti rend-erò la… mia reg-ina degli… zombi.” He rutted against her, shoving his cock hard up against her cervix. Intentions made clear, he pulled out to the tip before shoving himself back in. The force of the thrust shoved Libitina into the stone, knocking the wind out of her. She inhaled the fog deeply as he pumped into her deep and slow, the cool mist chilling her lungs. Her exhale was a moan as she relaxed into his grip, letting the pleasure of the stretch take over.

“That feels so good,” she sighed. “Take me. Make me your zombie queen.”

He grunted at her words, quickening his pace. With a rough hand, he yanked her head to the side, exposing her neck. “Vuoi il… mio zom-bi sborro? Vuoi… che ti s-sporchi il grembo, suora?” Groans seemed to drone out of his lips as he neared her neck.

The thrill of him coating her in his seed made her grip his neck, talons pricking the soft decaying skin. She brought him back up to look into those blood-red eyes. His teeth gnashed together in an angry hunger. “Fill me with your filth first, corpse.”

Her heart quickened as she realized the danger she was in, that the rest of the Ministry was in. There would be no use in spreading the word of Satan through groans and moans. She had to get out of there in order to warn her sisters.

Secondo foamed at the mouth as he thrust faster and harder. Libitina kept her grip, not eager to unleash the monster. “Want y-you. Let P-papa h-ave taste.”

Libitina pushed off the plinth, sending them both toppling forward. Scrambling to her feet, she dashed down the cemetery path, groans and yells filling the air behind her. The fog still remained, obscuring identifying tombstones that she would have used to find her way back on a normal night. No time to waste.

“Ghuleh, tor-na quiiiii. A-Abbiamo a…appena iniziato,” he seethed. A roar ripped from him as he staggered after her.

Libitina turned and ran, boots sliding in the mud, but that didn’t stop her. She wove her way through the jagged tombstones, apologizing to the dead for any disrespect or trampled flowers placed by siblings. She had to get to the Ministry. Once she got there she would wake Sister Margery and they could board the doors together and barricade the rest of the Ministry.

“Y-ou can r.. run, but youuu can’t hide… Ghuuuleh. I kn-know your scent.” He was further behind now, but she had to keep running, had to keep going. It wasn’t just her life that depended on it. Her thighs ached, but she pushed harder in the mud when she saw the faint light behind a stained glass window.

“Margery!” she cried out. “Sister Margery! Anyone!” The Ministry became clearer the closer she got. Out of breath, she threw her fists in a dizzy haze against the heavy wooden door to the funerary wing. “Please! Anyone!”

“Sister Libitina, is that you?” The voice was muffled, coming from the open window above, but the high pitch was unmistakably that of Sibling Antina.

“Antina! Let me in! I don’t have time to explain!”

“Don’t you have your key?”

“No! It’s too long of a story, please come let me in! It’s urgent!!”

“Ghuuuleh,” came a groan in the distance.

“Hurry!” Libitina cried again.

“I’m coming! I’m coming!”

Libitina rested her hands on her knees, doubling over as she tried to catch her breath. The damp night air tasted like danger now, and she pulled herself back up to rest against the wall, holding her breath as best she could. The last thing she needed was to alert him to exactly where she was.

It wasn’t much longer until she heard the footsteps on those worn stone stairs, racing down to meet her. The door flung open and there stood Sibling Antina in their nightgown.

“Everyone else has gone to bed. I was on duty tonight. What happened? Where is your key?”

“I’ll explain it all later please just let me i-“

Like being hit by a truck she was knocked to the ground, pain searing through her arm as she saw Secondo’s teeth tearing through her sleeve and puncturing her skin. Glossy blood welled up in the faint light of the open door

“Shut it, Antina! Shut it! He’s a zombie!”

“Wh-“

“Shut the door! Ah!” she winced at the pain as he bit down harder. “Papa Secondo is a zombie! Wake the siblings and barricade the Ministry. Form a hunting party in the morning to come and find us.”

“Hunting? Us? But Sis-“

“It’s too late for me! Save the Ministry.” And with that, Libitina kicked the door shut on Sibling Antina’s face.

“Ghuleh t-aste gooood.”

She turned back to Secondo, watching him lap up the blood that was trickling down her arm and soaking her sleeve. His tongue delved past the fabric tear and into the cut, eyes gleaming with delight when Libitina grit her teeth. “So you want to finish what we started?”

“Yesssss”

“They know what you are. If you want to fuck me you’d better find a new place before someone takes your head off.”

He growled at the reminder of his monstrous form and got to his feet. Strong hands gripped Libitina’s boots and he dragged her the short distance to a nearby monument, stowing them both behind it, away from the view of any foolish rescuers. “Im- Impatient.”

“Go on then: make my death worth it.”

He snarled and flipped her over, ripping her skirt away from her in a flutter of cloth. Rough hands gripped her hips, yanking them up into the air to display her still dripping cunt for him. He hitched up his robes and thrust his cock into her without warning. The soft muddied sole of his papal slipper pressed her cheek into the dewy grass as he snapped into her at a punishing pace. “R-egina de…gli zzzombi è … è un onoreeeee, ma… tu ssscappi, pu..t-ttana innnngrata,” he groaned.

“Puttana ingrata? You fucking bit me, asshole!”

His cold palm cracked against her ass cheek. Her spine arched at the delicious pain shifting the angle of his thrusts. She moaned loud enough to wake the dead as he brought her closer and closer to the precipice.

“Que-Questa trooooia brrrrama.. co-sì tannnn-to il …mio cazzo… e la miiiia s-sporciiiizia?”

“Sì, Papa,” she groaned, drowned out by the claps of his hips bruising hers. “Fill me with your cum. I want all of it.”

He stopped as she was on the edge and pulled out. She whined as the ache took over. He removed his foot from her face and shoved her over so her face was lit by the moon. Her hands spread her thighs in lust when she saw how his thick cock was coated in her slick.

“Vo..Voglio guarrrr..d-dartiii in ffffaccia… quan-quando tiiii me-tto in..inciiinta del …nosssstro e-errrede, Ghuleh.” He hooked her legs over his shoulders and once more impaled her. She whimpered as his new position pushed him deeper than before, deep enough that his seed would take hold.

He was slow and gentle at first but Libitina’s cries every time he bottomed out quickly sent him into a frenzy. Her wails soon had his hips stuttering. “C-Come fffor me, Ghuleh. Letttt… your w-womb driiiiink… my seed.”

Her hands ripped out fistfuls of grass as the waves crashed down on her and she spasmed hard around his cock. The contractions were the final push for him as his cock shot cold ropes of seed deep within her.

She groaned feeling the tingling coolness seeming to numb her inside. Already her brain was fuzzy and she couldn’t help but feel hungry like something was gnawing at the pit of her stomach. “F-food,” she moaned.

He pulled out and she could feel the numbing cum trickle out of her. “R-rest f-irst.” Scooping her up, he staggered off into the graveyard.

“Where are we going? They’ll look in your grave first.”

“O-old ma- mauso-leum. Rrrest. Then f-fill… Ghuleh… again.”

Translations:

Riscaldami, Ghuleh. - Warm me, Ghuleh

Ti rend-erò la… mia reg-ina degli… zombi.- I will make you my zombie queen.

Vuoi il… mio zom-bi sborro? Vuoi… che ti s-sporchi il grembo, suora? - Do you want my zombie cum? Do you want me to soil your womb, Sister?

Ghuleh, tor-na quiiiii. A-Abbiamo a…appena iniziato - Ghuleh, come back here. We’re just getting started

R-egina de…gli zzzombi è … è un onoreeeee, ma… tu ssscappi, pu..t-ttana innnngrata - Zombie Queen is an honor, but you run away, you ungrateful whore

Que-Questa trooooia brrrrama.. co-sì tannnn-to il …mio cazzo… e la miiiia s-sporciiiizia?- This slut craves my cock and my filth so much?

Vo..Voglio guarrrr..d-dartiii in ffffaccia… quan-quando tiiii me-tto in..inciiinta del …nosssstro e-errrede, Ghuleh. - I want to see your face when I impregnate you with our heir, Ghuleh

[friendball-irl]

Well he collapsed with Stevens-Johnson Syndrome on the E.R. floor Panic attacked, anaphylactic and ataxic The way he spun his butterfly risked all six his phalanges Roman candles at both ends in his synapses And the method with which he recycled his humors Trojan Horse'd his Blood-Brain Barrier and raised the LD-50, yes, yes And through flight-or-fight revelation shame the Black Box Warrior He skipped this town and headed straight down history Shields himself from reason in a Kevlar baby-blue Tuxedo Quilted from the finest fibers, flesh, and fiberglass, and flowers His ego a mosquito, evil incarnate good incognito Pops placebos for libido, screaming, "Bless the torpedoes"

For what? For what? For what it's worth If it was going to kill you boy, it would have by now For what? For what? For what it's worth There's no more looking back, it's looking up or looking down

Well, he was wearing stolen rubber shoes and wrapped a poison ivy noose Around his Lotus jugular when they came Well, they found him with a map to every victim of his love And a tattoo of a blue jay on his face And they waited for his vital signs to lie and let a flatline cry A hymn out in Hungarian Harmonic

But he cocked his noggin, through his stoma sang, "For auld lang syne" "Happy birthday to the succulents, I'll die your hydroponics" His rib cage was a hornet's nest, palpitations set the beat His vagus nerve a turk's head knot, an axel hitch, a carrick bend He wondered if Christ Consciousness would charge a cancellation fee Auf wiedersehn, au revoir, he gripped his wits right by their ends

For what? For what? For what it's worth If it was going to kill you boy, it would have by now For what? For what? For what it's worth There's no more looking back, it's looking up or looking down

Hello, welcome, why don't you take a seat? Get comfortable, relax, take a second if you need to Now what's bothering you? Well, why don't we start at the beginning Growing up, how was your relationship with the fundamentals of conscious existence? Did you have xenon orchid sinews spilling down the outer center of your Blooming Escher/Mandelbrot head? And how about claustrophilic tendrils clapping caskets closed on seven-knuckle thumbs Did you get along well with the Gideon Bugler pineal glands? Your projector eyes casting sci-fi's on your STR'd strands?

Tell me about your nerve to steal nerves of steel from under Bacchus' bloody nose Did Namibian Himbas tie-dye you, your ears pierced with a Phineas Gage flagpole Did you die before your day? Thursday traction, Tuesday titration My hope is to assess through my objective report of Your subjective conjecture Whether this proprietary bled of expertise and seasoning works as well as this Transorbital ice pick

Holistic ballistics, you got a better idea? It's about the best we could come up with, what, you think ideas spread because they're good? No, they spread because people like them So now here we are once again, holding As it were, a mirror up to your mirror I guess it's just something people do

A bloody knife to split your infrastructure, wine to rev your motor function Coital machinations of the dead Well, you mainline your animus, karate chop your abacus And learn to be an animal instead But I never did think you better than this, your modus operandi causes Nazi/Skoptzyism and suicide Why to thine own self be true when it is you who are the problem Not the things you do but something sick inside

Lithium and Dialectics, boy you really is defective CBT don't seem effective for that Cluster B, accept it Offer up your innocence, please ignore the side effects You've lost your mind and almost lost your life before So you'll be fine

For what? For what? For what it's worth If it was going to kill you boy, it would have by now For what? For what? For what it's worth There's no more looking back, and why would you want to look back? I mean, it's no good looking back, so try to look forward now For what? For what? For what it's worth If they were going to get you boy, they would have by now For what? For what? For what it's worth There's no more looking back, it's looking up or looking down...

Yet another song I don't know 😔

[msftsn]

@galaxietm : “you can tell how dangerous a person is by the way that they hold their anger in themselves quietly.” things one might need to hear : natalia & averey.

within the sanctuary of the secret garden he keeps, only the knight can see the crimson flowers he has planted, their petals sway in the wind while he stands among the flowers in the dark. he goes there every night after making sure that the princess has someone guarding her quarters, goes there when he has to remember the past against his will. the red reminds him of the ground 'neath his childish body when they threw him into the dried river - his own parents - left him to rot and die because they deemed him cursed. it reminds him of the blood he's been forced to spill from the moment he was able to take any sort of paying job. but most importantly, it reminds him of the red hot rage he cages underneath his ribs, the anger that makes his heart pound until all he hears is his own pulse. the crimson flowers are like a sponge, seemingly soaking up his conflicting emotions before he crushes one under his shoe and moves on. continues as if nothing had ever happened. he remains silent, biting his tongue at the princess' words, nods as if she didn't just metaphorically threw a boulder at him. his chest tightens, feels heavy. worry surges through him like a tidal wave, she can't know, can she? there is no way she could possibly know. his anger never came up around her and he made sure to keep it well under wraps so nobody would ever face it. like a two sided blade he made sure to dull, until only the side facing him remained sharp.

❛ you make an excellent point, your highness. ❜

his voice is almost void of emotion, professional and cool as amber eye stares ahead into nothingness - occasionally glancing around the room as if to ensure he seemed normal if tense from the meeting he had with the high-ranking knights a bit ago. he'd look anywhere but at natalia if it meant she wouldn't see through this act, wouldn't see the disgusting side of him he so desperately tried to deny. to get rid of. he didn't want to be dangerous, he didn't want to be the monster he'd been called all of his life - he wanted to protect the childhood friend that gave a purpose to his life. thats all he wanted to do. if he could, he would tear his heart out to get rid of these pesky, negative emotions. if it meant he could be the person he wants the princess to perceive him as rather than the horrible, ghastly monster in human skin he already is.

❛ do you think a dangerous person can be good? ❜

[twisted-bee]

im going to bite you

OK WELL HERES THE LYRICS TO BLACKBOX WARRIOR - OKULTRA BY WILL WOOD FROM THE NORMAL ALBUM

Well he collapsed with Stevens-Johnson Syndrome on the E.R. floor Panic attacked, anaphylactic and ataxic The way he spun his butterfly risked all six his phalanges Roman candles at both ends in his synapses And the method with which he recycled his humors Trojan Horse'd his Blood-Brain Barrier and raised the LD-50, yes, yes And through flight-or-fight revelation shame the Black Box Warrior He skipped this town and headed straight down history Shields himself from reason in a Kevlar baby-blue Tuxedo Quilted from the finest fibers, flesh, and fiberglass, and flowers His ego a mosquito, evil incarnate good incognito Pops placebos for libido, screaming, "Bless the torpedoes"

For what? For what? For what it's worth If it was going to kill you boy, it would have by now For what? For what? For what it's worth There's no more looking back, it's looking up or looking down

Well, he was wearing stolen rubber shoes and wrapped a poison ivy noose Around his Lotus jugular when they came Well, they found him with a map to every victim of his love And a tattoo of a blue jay on his face And they waited for his vital signs to lie and let a flatline cry A hymn out in Hungarian Harmonic

But he cocked his noggin, through his stoma sang, "For auld lang syne" "Happy birthday to the succulents, I'll die your hydroponics" His rib cage was a hornet's nest, palpitations set the beat

His vagus nerve a turk's head knot, an axel hitch, a carrick bend He wondered if Christ Consciousness would charge a cancellation fee Auf wiedersehn, au revoir, he gripped his wits right by their ends

For what? For what? For what it's worth If it was going to kill you boy, it would have by now For what? For what? For what it's worth There's no more looking back, it's looking up or looking down

Hello, welcome, why don't you take a seat? Get comfortable, relax, take a second if you need to Now what's bothering you? Well, why don't we start at the beginning Growing up, how was your relationship with the fundamentals of conscious existence? Did you have xenon orchid sinews spilling down the outer center of your Blooming Escher/Mandelbrot head? And how about claustrophilic tendrils clapping caskets closed on seven-knuckle thumbs Did you get along well with the Gideon Bugler pineal glands? Your projector eyes casting sci-fi's on your STR'd strands?

Tell me about your nerve to steal nerves of steel from under Bacchus' bloody nose Did Namibian Himbas tie-dye you, your ears pierced with a Phineas Gage flagpole Did you die before your day? Thursday traction, Tuesday titration My hope is to assess through my objective report of Your subjective conjecture Whether this proprietary bled of expertise and seasoning works as well as this Transorbital ice pick

Holistic ballistics, you got a better idea? It's about the best we could come up with, what, you think ideas spread because they're good? No, they spread because people like them So now here we are once again, holding As it were, a mirror up to your mirror I guess it's just something people do

A bloody knife to split your infrastructure, wine to rev your motor function Coital machinations of the dead Well, you mainline your animus, karate chop your abacus And learn to be an animal instead But I never did think you better than this, your modus operandi causes Nazi/Skoptzyism and suicide Why to thine own self be true when it is you who are the problem Not the things you do but something sick inside

Lithium and Dialectics, boy you really is defective CBT don't seem effective for that Cluster B, accept it Offer up your innocence, please ignore the side effects You've lost your mind and almost lost your life before So you'll be fine

For what? For what? For what it's worth If it was going to kill you boy, it would have by now For what? For what? For what it's worth There's no more looking back, and why would you want to look back? I mean, it's no good looking back, so try to look forward now For what? For what? For what it's worth If they were going to get you boy, they would have by now For what? For what? For what it's worth There's no more looking back, it's looking up or looking down...

[arctic-oceans]

WGW Chapter 1 ( Aston )/ Scene 1

Word count: 2078

Taglist ( ask to be added! ):

@serenanymph

-

“Are they visible yet?” Crawford asked as soon as his eyes had peeled open. His voice was coarse and thick from sleep, yet the man was soft spoken despite all of the years he had spent working in the mines that burdened his lungs. Aston shifted from the uncomfortable spot he had nudged himself into next to the window and faced the old man who had been napping for almost an hour at that point. Not a lot of time had passed since their last stop, the train had barely entered the countryside; they were only two villages in the rail route out of many. The scenery changed rapidly as the vehicle accelerated in the tracks, the local houses that branched off to the hillside barely visible anymore. Same old, same old. 

“I think I can see something in the background,” Aston muttered, pointing at a faint shape emerging towards the skyline. “There- amongst the mountains.” 

Indeed, the Stairs were visible from the train window- it hadn’t taken long before they had protruded from the summit of the Poppy Hill, although they were still blurry in the distance. Aston wasn’t sure he could have missed them even if he wanted to; he had been looking for them ever since they had boarded the vehicle- his eyes transfixed to the filthy looking glass and desperate to catch ahold of them. His heart slammed against his rib– pounding, each pulse the beat of a drum as they got closer and closer to their destination. Maybe he wouldn’t be so consumed by the idea of it had it been any other ride; but it wouldn’t leave his mind, like a feral animal trapped in a cage, ceaselessly circling the corners. 

There was a smile etched in the wrinkles of Crawford’s face. “Had your old man told me five years ago that one day I’d be on this train with you Aston, I would have called bullshit,” the man paused for a second and cupped Aston’s cheeks with warm hands, his eyes searching his face, lingering for odd moments at one feature before moving to another; looking for something- looking for someone who was no longer there. 

“Look how much you’ve grown… He would be so proud of you.”

“Oh.” 

Aston grit his teeth, not knowing how to handle the fondness Crawford treated him with because he was not fragile. He had spent two years trying to contain all of the anger seething inside of him and today it threatened to spill in violent urges and shaking fists. There was water boiling on the stove, bubbling, steaming, building up pressure and it was at a tipping point at the edge of the pot. Aston couldn’t turn the heat down. Gone were the days people grieved his father. In the village, it was a unanimous vote that they wore black the first month. The Orphanage’s windows were covered in dark panels out of respect, and his grave was to be decorated with flowers each weekend. As things quieted down though, life moved on as it always had, and Oliver Metcalf was eventually forgotten.  

So it didn’t happen as often anymore, that someone would look at him, and see the ghost of his father in his place. After all, it was a strange thing, being two men at once; one dead, one alive. Every now and then though, he would buckle under the sheer weight of it in his consciousness– it was a sick feeling curdling in the pit of his stomach that Aston couldn’t fathom despite his best efforts. Grief took various forms throughout a lifetime; like a broken mirror that shattered in pieces, each sharp edge reflected a point in the past where Aston had hit rock bottom. 

That first day, all it had taken to ease the fire burning inside of him was a punch. The numb disbelief in the way Kenta stared at him right after was unexpected, and it made pure adrenaline rush through his veins. It was almost salvation. Aston had stayed awake many nights studying the memory–the shift of weight in his legs, the swing, the satisfying crunching noise Kenta’s nose made as it broke on impact when it collided with his fist– hoping it would give him the same thrill it once did; but something had changed.

What once was restlessness turned into a drinking problem. Aston would snatch old bottles of aged wine from the cellar and run away at night. He’d race through the wheat fields for hours until he was panting for air, and his limbs heavy with exhaustion, and once he decided he was lost enough he’d drink himself to oblivion. He’d do anything to help him forget. He preferred the little world in his head anyway.

Those days, Aston forgot how to breathe. It would start subtly, like a tidied up crime scene: his blood would rush through his veins carrying panic and despair, and only the moment it’d reach his heart would it be apparent that there was a lack of oxygen. Basic bodily functions weren’t supposed to work like this. Still; his body would fail him. His breathing would become elaborate, frantic, his insides begging for air, and he’d inhale deeply from the pit of his stomach and hold the air in his lungs until it would hurt. Until he was sure that he did breathe, that there was oxygen being circulated in his system. He barely survived those days.

Aston felt like a spectator in his own body, silently, carefully watching things from a distance as he was trapped in his own head. The gentle rocking of the train seemed to drag him along in circles, the faint [hues] of some birds chirping scattered in the wagon, swiftly lulling him back into focus. It was the sound of obnoxious snoring that instinctively drew Aston’s attention as one of the passengers, his co-worker, shifted in his seat and the leather no longer drowned out his heavy breathing which snapped Aston out of the brain fog that appeared to have clouded his mind. Crawford’s wrist watch indicated that it had been some time, at least enough for the sun to peek out under the heavy clouds. It would rain. Not a good omen. The climb up to the Fourth Level would only get more arduous if they couldn’t grip the rungs of the Stairs well- it was crucial that all would be in their favour. 

It was even more crucial that their mathematician was worth the price they had paid for. Aston got five delhias for a day’s worth of work in the fields– sometimes, during the Summer months he might have even gotten one menha had that year’s crops been fruitful. The scholar got six hundred menhas for the calculations. A wage of a hundred days for Aston. If the estimations were incorrect even by a fraction, he might as well have killed them all before they attempted the ascent.

Time hung out like clothes to dry, waiting, waiting. They’d arrive on the Poppy Hill by midday. They had boarded the train quite late at night, at four in the morning, from a small town near the bottom of the mountains where they had stocked up on supplies the previous day. Their backpacks were stuffed in shelves that hung just above their heads. Most of Aston’s co-workers were experienced, unlike him who was attending a mining expedition for the first time, and they had fallen asleep as soon as they got on the vehicle. “Conserving your energy is the most important part of the climb,” they’d told him. “If you’re foolish enough you’ll run out of stamina halfway up and by Seven, no one will save you then.” 

There was too much energy inside of Aston that tugged and jerked his consciousness to let him rest– a turmoil of sorts that must have looked like the turbulent sea on the Second Level, if the rumours he’d heard about it held true, and not a bedtime story for the young. He had nodded off for a while earlier but he was awakened not long ago by the monotone voice of the radio broadcaster who announced the weather forecast and the hungry Northern wind coming down from the alps whistling in the carriage from a window left open. Aston laid there, curled in the small space wishing he could stretch his stiff legs, growing impatient by the minute. His seat was worn with age and it was adorned with the familiar smell of sweat and smoke, like all the other passengers that sat nearby. 

This was the second time he’d ever been on a train. The group had been travelling on foot for a week now between villages, picking up the workers and new recruits. Hansen had kindly informed them the night before they had set out that money was tight, so they’d only be picking up a ride on their way to the Poppy Hill as their baggage would be heavy and he didn’t want them exhausted before their journey up the Level. Aston on the other hand, was [pretty] sure that all of them had paid enough for at least a comfortable commute, if not more– it was just that their bastard boss couldn’t spare a few more of their hard-earned menhas when he could drink himself dry with expensive whiskey in the Capital with their wages once they were gone. Crawford had warned him of how things were when he first told him he wanted to join him in the next expedition– despite that, Aston couldn't get rid of the thought that he had been cheated off, which had been tormenting him ever since they’d embarked on this journey. If there was one thing Aston was sure of, was that he couldn’t afford being fired now that he was so close to the end goal. He would have raised Hell with Hansen, otherwise. 

There was a difference between them villagers and those who were city-born and raised in the lands of the Third Level. A chasm tore them apart, and the gap taunted the poor, mocking them for the lives they lead, indifferent to the fact they never had the chance to choose. Labour was born in the same rooms as those from the countryside, and the Nobles demanded all of it– a right only a mother could claim which had been long tainted. Aston looked at Hansen through half-lidded eyes; the stern expression on his face, the gold-adorned monocle by his right eye, the salt and pepper hair thinning on his temples, the tailored suit that fit him like second skin which was in an impeccable condition despite the days they’d been travelling on foot. He had been following them closely on a horse– no self-respecting Noble would allow themselves to act as a peasant would. Their Markings were of the same ink, served the same purpose and yet, there was a shame hidden in the tattoo had it not contained the right words. These parts of the Third Level, the Wealthy ate men alive. Odds were, they’d suck their bones clean of marrow were they allowed. 

Taking his eyes off the beast, Aston turned his head towards his co-workers. People worn in by years of toil– dressed in clothes as old as them that had been patched again and again when torn, their skin darkened by the hours spent harvesting the fields under the blazing sun and rough, calloused hands that ached when the weather turned cold. Only the weariness of the work field could turn a man to be so gentle. This was a truth the Nobles would never know off. 

Aston took a swig of wine from his flask to steady his aching heart. It all soon wouldn’t matter. Inch by inch they were nearing the endline, and the only way from there was upwards to the Fourth Level– his father’s alleged grave. 

Two years ago when the mining team returned from an expedition, all they’d brought Aston was a newspaper with his Da’s name written on it, on a list with those missing in action and a couple of good-for-nothing sorrys. Damned be those who grieved him, damned be those who didn’t– Oliver Metcalf could still be alive somewhere and it would take a God to stop Aston from tearing the Level apart until he could be reunited with his father.

Reflecting on the train’s windows was everything Aston had ever wanted. 

-

[lalucoo]

Well he collapsed with Stevens-Johnson Syndrome on the E.R. floor Panic attacked, anaphylactic and ataxic The way he spun his butterfly risked all six his phalanges Roman candles at both ends in his synapses And the method with which he recycled his humors Trojan Horse'd his Blood-Brain Barrier and raised the LD-50, yes, yes And through flight-or-fight revelation shame the Black Box Warrior He skipped this town and headed straight down history Shields himself from reason in a Kevlar baby-blue Tuxedo Quilted from the finest fibers, flesh, and fiberglass, and flowers His ego a mosquito, evil incarnate good incognito Pops placebos for libido, screaming, "Bless the torpedoes"

For what? For what? For what it's worth If it was going to kill you boy, it would have by now For what? For what? For what it's worth There's no more looking back, it's looking up or looking down

Well, he was wearing stolen rubber shoes and wrapped a poison ivy noose Around his Lotus jugular when they came Well, they found him with a map to every victim of his love And a tattoo of a blue jay on his face And they waited for his vital signs to lie and let a flatline cry A hymn out in Hungarian Harmonic

But he cocked his noggin, through his stoma sang, "For auld lang syne" "Happy birthday to the succulents, I'll die your hydroponics" His rib cage was a hornet's nest, palpitations set the beat His vagus nerve a turk's head knot, an axel hitch, a carrick bend He wondered if Christ Consciousness would charge a cancellation fee Auf wiedersehn, au revoir, he gripped his wits right by their ends

For what? For what? For what it's worth If it was going to kill you boy, it would have by now For what? For what? For what it's worth There's no more looking back, it's looking up or looking down

Hello, welcome, why don't you take a seat? Get comfortable, relax, take a second if you need to Now what's bothering you? Well, why don't we start at the beginning Growing up, how was your relationship with the fundamentals of conscious existence? Did you have xenon orchid sinews spilling down the outer center of your Blooming Escher/Mandelbrot head? And how about claustrophilic tendrils clapping caskets closed on seven-knuckle thumbs Did you get along well with the Gideon Bugler pineal glands? Your projector eyes casting sci-fi's on your STR'd strands?

Tell me about your nerve to steal nerves of steel from under Bacchus' bloody nose Did Namibian Himbas tie-dye you, your ears pierced with a Phineas Gage flagpole Did you die before your day? Thursday traction, Tuesday titration My hope is to assess through my objective report of Your subjective conjecture Whether this proprietary bled of expertise and seasoning works as well as this Transorbital ice pick

Holistic ballistics, you got a better idea? It's about the best we could come up with, what, you think ideas spread because they're good? No, they spread because people like them So now here we are once again, holding As it were, a mirror up to your mirror I guess it's just something people do

A bloody knife to split your infrastructure, wine to rev your motor function Coital machinations of the dead Well, you mainline your animus, karate chop your abacus And learn to be an animal instead But I never did think you better than this, your modus operandi causes Nazi/Skoptzyism and suicide Why to thine own self be true when it is you who are the problem Not the things you do but something sick inside

Lithium and Dialectics, boy you really is defective CBT don't seem effective for that Cluster B, accept it Offer up your innocence, please ignore the side effects You've lost your mind and almost lost your life before So you'll be fine

For what? For what? For what it's worth If it was going to kill you boy, it would have by now For what? For what? For what it's worth There's no more looking back, and why would you want to look back? I mean, it's no good looking back, so try to look forward now For what? For what? For what it's worth If they were going to get you boy, they would have by now For what? For what? For what it's worth There's no more looking back, it's looking up or looking down...

[tma-entity-song-poll]

Battle of the Fear Bands B2R3: The Corruption

Entomologists:

BlackBoxWarrior:

“A song about a man struggling with his health (be it mental or physical). The song makes the treatment seem inhumane and just as terrifying as the initial problem. It’s almost like he’s getting sicker and sicker but just won’t die.”

Lyrics below the line!

Entomologists:

I hear, humming Buzzing, buzzing Today marks one long dream Burrowed deep inside Sallowing faces Leaving me behind They talk about me, see? I can hear them They call their friends Entomologists Knock on wood, but I'd rather stay alone And isolate intuition from unknown You've bent my world, now, I'll never figure out What it means, when I see, infestations in my dreams Today marks two long dreams Festering away Sallowing bodies Crawling on all fours They talk about me They get in real close They call themselves Metamorphosis Knock on wood, but I'd rather stay alone And isolate intuition from unknown You've bent my world, now, I'll never figure out What it means, when I see, infestations in my dreams

BlackBoxWarrior - OKULTRA:

Well he collapsed with Stevens-Johnson Syndrome on the E.R. floor Panic attacked, anaphylactic and ataxic The way he spun his butterfly risked all six his phalanges Roman candles at both ends in his synapses And the method with which he recycled his humors Trojan Horse'd his Blood-Brain Barrier and raised the LD-50, yes, yes And through flight-or-fight revelation shame the Black Box Warrior He skipped this town and headed straight down history Shields himself from reason in a Kevlar baby-blue Tuxedo Quilted from the finest fibers, flesh, and fiberglass, and flowers His ego a mosquito, evil incarnate good incognito Pops placebos for libido, screaming, "Bless the torpedoes"

For what? For what? For what it's worth If it was going to kill you boy, it would have by now For what? For what? For what it's worth There's no more looking back, it's looking up or looking down

Well, he was wearing stolen rubber shoes and wrapped a poison ivy noose Around his Lotus jugular when they came Well, they found him with a map to every victim of his love And a tattoo of a blue jay on his face And they waited for his vital signs to lie and let a flatline cry A hymn out in Hungarian Harmonic But he cocked his noggin, through his stoma sang, "For auld lang syne" "Happy birthday to the succulents, I'll die your hydroponics" His rib cage was a hornet's nest, palpitations set the beat His vagus nerve a turk's head knot, an axel hitch, a carrick bend He wondered if Christ Consciousness would charge a cancellation fee Auf wiedersehn, au revoir, he gripped his wits right by their ends

For what? For what? For what it's worth If it was going to kill you boy, it would have by now For what? For what? For what it's worth There's no more looking back, it's looking up or looking down

Hello, welcome, why don't you take a seat? Get comfortable, relax, take a second if you need to Now what's bothering you? Well, why don't we start at the beginning Growing up, how was your relationship with the fundamentals of conscious existence? Did you have xenon orchid sinews spilling down the outer center of your Blooming Escher/Mandelbrot head? And how about claustrophilic tendrils clapping caskets closed on seven-knuckle thumbs Did you get along well with the Gideon Bugler pineal glands? Your projector eyes casting sci-fi's on your STR'd strands? Tell me about your nerve to steal nerves of steel from under Bacchus' bloody nose Did Namibian Himbas tie-dye you, your ears pierced with a Phineas Gage flagpole Did you die before your day? Thursday traction, Tuesday titration My hope is to assess through my objective report of Your subjective conjecture Whether this proprietary bled of expertise and seasoning works as well as this Transorbital ice pick Holistic ballistics, you got a better idea? It's about the best we could come up with, what, you think ideas spread because they're good? No, they spread because people like them So now here we are once again, holding As it were, a mirror up to your mirror I guess it's just something people do

A bloody knife to split your infrastructure, wine to rev your motor function Coital machinations of the dead Well, you mainline your animus, karate chop your abacus And learn to be an animal instead But I never did think you better than this, your modus operandi causes Nazi/Skoptzyism and suicide Why to thine own self be true when it is you who are the problem Not the things you do but something sick inside Lithium and Dialectics, boy you really is defective CBT don't seem effective for that Cluster B, accept it Offer up your innocence, please ignore the side effects You've lost your mind and almost lost your life before So you'll be fine For what? For what? For what it's worth If it was going to kill you boy, it would have by now For what? For what? For what it's worth There's no more looking back, and why would you want to look back? I mean, it's no good looking back, so try to look forward now For what? For what? For what it's worth If they were going to get you boy, they would have by now For what? For what? For what it's worth There's no more looking back, it's looking up or looking down…