#the sheer horror of being on the other side of losing her when it was always supposed to be you

[polysyndetonaddictsupportgroup]

my brainrot is unending and I am thanking blaming you

babe I think about that all the time

[lilyswritings]

fate — xix

synopsis: Keep your head down, focus on getting through your classes, and try not to die. That had always been your plan of attack when it comes to attending Kings Dominion School of the Deadly Arts. But your life plans get thrown out the window as you find yourself growing attached to the new kid who refuses to lose his compassion and moral code, despite the ruthless curriculum and vicious social cliques he finds himself surrounded by.

author’s note: thank you all for still being here!! your passion for this series has really kept me going, and i sincerely appreciate each and every one of you who's still here. i am still following closely to the show, but as we are swiftly approaching the end of the tv show (ruh roh!) i will be making some changes. without further ado, please enjoy part nineteen!

wordcount: 2,819

part i || part ii || part iii || part iv || part v || part vi || part vii || part viii || part ix || part x || part xi || part xii || part xiii || part xiv || part xv || part xvi || part xvii || part xviii || part xix || part xx

Marcus Lopez Arguello x Reader

     The dorm room is dead silent as you gape blankly at Petra. "No. Fucking. Way." You stare in horror at your roommate, mouth hung open as you attempt to process the slew of graphic information she just threw in your face. In response to your sheer outrage, she simply shrugs, black-painted lips turning up at the corners at the aghast expression on your face.

"Ew," You gasp, eyebrows furrowing as it seeps in, your eyes darting between your roommate, the sheets on your bed, to the chair in the corner, back to your roommate. "Ew! You and... Both of them? EW!" You stand up abruptly from your bed, eyes scanning the bedding below you in panic.

Petra's eyes twinkle with delight at your reaction to her news of what had gone down during the lockdown, when Lex, Billy and her, had been mere moments away from partaking in a three-way in your very room. While it hadn't gone very far, the sheer idea of something like that happening between your three closest friends, in your room, makes your skin crawl.

"In my room?" You exclaim, still processing, and she laughs.

"It's my room too. And we didn't do anything on your side... I don't think." She shrugs again, ducking away from the pillow you hurl at her.

You point a finger at her, mouth still agape at the very idea of anything like that happening on or around your personal belongings. "Petra Katja Yolga, I swear to God, if you ever have sex on my side of the room—"

"Whatever, Mom." She sighs, flipping you a middle finger, before her expression turns sly and a smirk tugs at her lips. "Besides, I feel like if either of us are in danger of participating in activities of the coital nature in this room, it's you."

Your jaw drops, cheeks blazing at the insinuation. "Shut up." You mutter, unable to form a cohesive comeback, and your heated cheeks and lack of retort just fuel Petra's fire, causing her eyes to twinkle mischievously as she plops down on the edge of your bed.

"Oh, Marcus..." She fakes a breathy gasp, falling back into the pillows, and before she has a chance to tease you further, you whirl around and exit the room as fast as your feet can take you, eyes wide with mortification as the sound of Petra's laughter follows you down the corridor.

Speaking of... You will the flush in your face to dissipate as Marcus turns the corner at the end of the corridor, dark eyes immediately seeking you out. "Hey." He smiles softly at you, and you reciprocate, heart swooping at the mere sight of his smile. Jesus, you need to get it together.

"You okay?" He takes in your flushed expression with furrowed brows and you bite back a laugh.

"Not one bit," You shake your head, eyes wide. "Apparently my three best friends almost slept with each other last night... In my room."

"What, all of them? Like, at once?" Marcus' tone is incredulous and you nod, pleased he seems as baffled by it all as you are, but then he ruins it. "Good for them."

You frown, smacking his shoulder lightly. "No, not good for them! My friends! In my room!"

He huffs out a laugh at your outrage, and it's only them that you notice there's a tension in his expression, a hardened look in his dark eyes that gives you pause. "Hey, what's up?"

Marcus makes a face, obviously not having intended on talking about it. "It's nothing, I just... I just got out of AP Black Arts and had it out with Master Lin. It's nothing serious, though, promise." At this, he slides his hand down one of your forearms, lacing his fingers with yours and tugging you closer to him.

Your brows shoot up, cheeks heating back up at the sudden proximity as you gaze up at him through your lashes. "If the monks catch us like this..." Your words trail off as he dips his head to seal his lips to yours, the kiss causing you to forget any protest you might have once had. Before you know it. his hands are on your waist and you're gripping at the lapels of his uniform, the world beyond the two of you lost to oblivion for all you care. You can hear Petra's voice in your head, cackling, but you shove it away, relishing in the kiss.

"If you're worried about the monks," He whispers as he pulls away, dark eyes glittering with mischief. "Maybe we should go somewhere more private."

You very nearly go along with it too, the air simmering between the two of you in the darkened hallway, but you remember why you were going to seek him out in the first place, and step back to give yourself some space to think — something you have proven to be unable to do at such close proximity to him.

"You —" You brush your hands over the lapels of his uniform, straightening the creases you didn't realize you'd made. "Have a shift at the comics store, if I remember correctly." He curses immediately at the reminder, groaning, and you smirk.

"Come with me." He proposes, hand sneaking back onto your waist, and you raise your eyebrows at how bold he's become — but then an apologetic look sneaks into his features, his brown eyes widening with a plea. "Plus, you sort of need to be there, Saya wanted to call a Vegas Crew gathering."

You feel the romance dissipate from the air just like that, a crushing reminder of the psychopathic killer at large and the incredible danger you all live in swooping in to ruin the mood. "Right. Smart." You nod, running a hand through your hair, and Marcus sighs.

"I was going to go change, do you want to come wait in the room?" You raise your eyebrows at his words and he laughs, hands held up in surrender. "No funny business, I swear." You roll your eyes, but nod anyway, biting your lip at the kiss he presses to your cheek as you follow him to his room.

Before long, the two of you head to the comic store together, only waiting a little while before Saya, Billy, and Willie all show up too.

The black and white photos Saya has sprawled on the counter make you shudder, taking in the horrors of what Fuckface has done to Shabnam's house.

"Jesus," Marcus finally speaks up, voicing your thoughts. "Is that Shabnam's dad?" He holds out a photo and you grimace at the image before you.

"His mom's probably in there as well." Billy says, and your frown deepens, causing him to pat you on the back with a less-than-convincing smile of reassurance. "All the more reason we have to do this now."

"Shabnam's house is rigged with traps," Saya explains, pointing them out on the photos. "Chester has seven to eight people inside, helping him."

You pause from gnawing on your thumbnail to look up at Saya. "Are we sure he has Chico?"

"He's not bluffing," Saya sighs. "He knows everything. He has to be getting information from someone inside of King's."

"Shabnam's parents." Marcus fills in, and you nod along, brows furrowed.

"What's stopping him from just..." You swallow thickly. "Sending Chico's head to El Diablo? If he finds out that it was Maria... That we were there..." It's hard to repress the shudder that wracks your body at the mere thought of that.

Marcus' hand appears on top of yours, dark eyes seeking out yours in an attempt at reassurance. "We're gonna need some serious firepower." He sighs, turning back to the group, and you nod. "Guns, explosives—"

"Y'all must be out your damn minds." Willie's voice cuts him off, and when you look up you notice him glowering at all of you, his arms folded over his chest. His eyes meet yours, and your brows tug together, before he scoffs and turns to leave the store.

"Wait, Willie—" You go to follow him, but Marcus puts a hand on your arm and gets up, exiting the store behind his friend. As soon as they both leave, you turn back to Saya and Billy, sighing deeply and sitting in Marcus' empty chair.

"We have to talk to Maria." You say, knowing full well it isn't what Saya wants to hear, and she grimaces but doesn't argue with you. There's a long silence that follows, where all three of you are inevitably picturing the various awful ways that conversation will go, before you finally let out a deep breath.

"I'll do it." You volunteer, causing both of your friends to glance up at you sharply.

"No offence," Billy starts, glancing between you and Saya. "But I think you're probably the last person she wants to talk to right now."

"I'm well aware," You shoot him a glare. "But she has to know what's going on. And I have to try to... To fix this." You know it's probably impossible, that this might be a death wish, but you have to try. You owe it to her to try.

"Tell Marcus where I've gone, okay?" You look to Saya, and she nods, one dark eyebrow arched at your plan. "I'll fill in on the rest of this later, but... I have to do this."

When you arrive back at King's, you forge a note from Juan to Maria, asking her to meet in the girl's bathroom, before slipping it under her door and running to the bathroom to lie in wait.

You are well aware that this might be the stupidest thing you've ever done, but you have run completely out of other options. As you sit in the darkened girls bathroom, you take a moment to fully wonder where the fuck your life went so wrong that you are now in a bathroom, preparing to trap the leader of the Soto Vatos and el Alma del Diablo's pet assassin, in order to have a heart-to-heart.

You are not given enough time to fully delve into those thoughts, thankfully, as the door begins to creak open and you spy Maria's shoes from the crack under the door.

"Meeting in the girl's bathroom is a new low, Juan." Maria calls out in Spanish, and you grimace as you swing the door shut and plant yourself in front of it, revealing your ruse to her.

She wheels around with her fan poised in front of her, expression morphing from one of surprise into rageful apprehension, and you throw your hands up placatingly.

"I know how this looks, and I'm sorry, I just really need you to hear me out and I knew you would never agree to talk with me." Your words tumble into each other in their haste to leave your mouth, and you sigh deeply before oh-so-slowly pulling open your blazer to show her the lack of knives tucked into the lining.

Coming unarmed to this might have been a suicidal move, but you know it's the only way to get her to listen to you.

Her dark eyes narrow, scanning your body, and you nod. "None in the boots, either." You answer before she even gets the chance to ask, slowly rolling your ankle around to show off the lack of metallic glinting.

"We need to talk." It's a cheeky thing to say as you stand in between her and the only exit, but you need her to agree not to kill you before you launch into anything — and you would really like it if this continued as a semi-normal conversation between two teenage friends, despite it all.

Maria doesn't lower her fan, but she doesn't run to attack you, either, so you take a deep breath and launch into it. "We've been doing reconnaissance on Fuckface, and it looks like he's holing up at Shabnam's house. We need to deal with him before he decides to send Chico's head to El Alma, and we need your help."

Her eyes widen as you talk, obviously as displeased by this update as you were, and you swallow thickly. "We need you, Maria. We have to end this. You killed Chico to save Marcus... Now we have to kill Chester to do the same. And save the rest of us, while we're at it."

Bringing up Marcus is a dicey move, and her eyes narrow at his name, but she finally tucks her fan away and sighs. "When?" She asks, and you sigh in relief, lowering your hands.

"We don't know. Soon. Maybe as soon as tomorrow. We didn't come up with a full plan before I left, but... It has to be now." The word 'we' obviously holds the implications of the Vegas Crew, and you watch her expression twinge at the mention of the group.

"Fine. I'll help." She says, eyes still glued to the ground. "Send a message when you make the plan." She moves to leave the bathroom, but you hold your position blocking the door, and her eyes narrow.

"Move." She orders, dark eyes narrowed, and you shake your head slowly, summoning the courage to say the next words.

"I'm sorry."

Your words hang heavy in the silence of the bathroom, and her expression morphs into one of heartbroken anger, but you push through. "I'm so sorry, Maria. It was never meant to happen like this, I didn't want—"

You're embarrassed by the sting of hot tears that press behind your eyelids, and you watch her drop her gaze to the ground, fists clenched tightly as she folds her arms across her chest.

"My heart has belonged to him since that first night on the roof, Maria. You have to know that." You plead, stoic in your efforts for her to comprehend how out of control you've felt this whole time. "With everything that we've been through, you have to understand that I didn't choose this. It just... Happened."

Her eyes never leave the ground, folded arms pressing tighter against her chest as she scuffs the toe of her shoe against the floor. "I know." She whispers, and you take a breath, watching her expression.

The dimly lit room is filled with tension, the air heavy with unspoken emotions. You've just ripped the curtains back and bared your soul to Maria, and now the ball remains firmly in her court. Her silence hangs in the room, stifling any hope for reconciliation.

Seconds turn to minutes as you both stand there, locked in a moment of profound uncertainty. Maria's hair falls over her face, obscuring her eyes as she continues to avoid your gaze. Her jaw tightens, and you can almost hear the gears turning in her mind, weighing the years of shared secrets and experiences against this revelation.

Finally, she breaks the silence with a heavy sigh. "I know," Maria repeats, her voice tinged with bitterness and resentment. "I've always known. I'm not an idiot. I see it in the way you look at him, the way you two..." She sighs again, dark eyes boring holes into the linoleum tile below her. Her words are sharp, filled with a sense of betrayal.

You nod, the weight of your confession still bearing down on you. "But I never wanted it to be like this, Maria. I never wanted to hurt you."

Maria finally looks up, her eyes meeting yours with a cold, unyielding glare. "You should have thought about that before you let it happen," she hisses. "I can't believe you would let me... You let me get my heart broken."

You take a step closer to her, reaching out to gently touch her arm, but she pulls away, her expression hardening. "Maria..." Your chest feels wounded, the sharpness in her eyes driving daggers into your heart. "I love you. I always will. But I can't change how I feel about him." Hot tears begin to fill your eyes as you shake your head fervently. "I wish I could."

Those words ring the truest for the both of you, and you both know it. Your shared love for this boy has caused boundless issues, invited danger and darkness into your lives, and yet as the bond between the two of you breaks in front of your eyes, you can share in the same hopeless adoration of the same idiotic man.

Tears well up in Maria's eyes, and this time, she lets them flow freely. "That isn't enough..." she says, her voice trembling with anger. "I need time. I need to figure this out."

You nod, feeling the weight of her disappointment pressing down on you, and she spares you one last cold glance before she swipes the tears from her face and storms out of the bathroom. The future is uncertain, but it seems clear to you now that your friendship has been irreparably damaged.

[veikonvihannekset]

I am thinking, once again, of Lucy Westenra, and how she is at the heart of both the tragedy and the triumph of the story.

It is unutterably tragic that Lucy Westenra had so many people who loved her, but none of them could save her; none of them could even be by her side in those moments of sheer, stark terror. None of them could know what she felt when she was too weak to write.

It is tragic and unfair that Lucy was forced to choose between the three men she loved, to drive wedges between those her affectionate heart yearned to embrace, and she would never know how they could come together. That all the people she loved could have come together from the start, without jealousy or barrier, but they didn’t know how to do it; they couldn’t do it in time to save her. They gave their blood for her, but it wasn’t enough.

Lucy’s tragedy reads specifically as a commentary on the barriers that the institution of the nuclear family throws up between people who care for each other, but do not have the space, or the time, to be present for each other; in particular, on the isolation it brings to women. As long as Lucy had Mina by her side, she was not alone. But when Mina was called to Jonathan’s side, she could not intrude; she could not ask her for what she was not in a position to give. Mina’s first duty, in that society, was to her husband, and at that time there was no-one to take that burden off her. If only Lucy had dared to confide in Mina; if only Mina had been in a position to notice, and act! If only either of them could have talked to her mother!

If only Van Helsing had confided in her, or in her mother, as to the actual source of her malaise! It is, perhaps, understandable that Van Helsing didn’t confide in them; such a tale could scarcely have been credible to her mother. It might have caused her weak heart to fail entirely; it might have caused her to lose all confidence in Van Helsing’s treatment. It would have brought more horror and distress to two women already trapped in a ghastly situation.

But what a relief it might have been to Lucy, to hear a tale that would have illuminated the root of her suffering! To feel less alone through those long terrible nights! Not to mention the possibility, however slight, that they might have believed in Van Helsing’s story, and acted; that she might have been saved. That all those gallant friends who were ready to give their blood for her might have done more, if they had known what to do.

When the polycule comes together to defeat the evil, it is by pooling their knowledge and their resources, and by embracing each other without hesitation or restraint. It is only by doing this that they are able to defeat Dracula, who acts by finding people when they are alone and weak in the darkness, and kills them while other people are too preoccupied to act on their behalf. It is by acting always together, by being ready to sacrifice all for each other, that they are able to defeat him in the end.

It is by the illumination of their scientific method, their rigorous curiosity, and their shared study, that they are able to defeat the darkness of Dracula, that feeds on people’s ignorance and isolation. But it is also Lucy’s triumph, that all these people she loved could find common cause in her name. That they could, for a little while, set at naught the boundaries that society throws up between people’s hearts. They could not do it in time to save her, but they could do it. I think the girl who wished that she could have three husbands, who wanted to share everything with Mina without reserve, would have found joy in that.

[phantomvegetable]

Legion (Joey) x Reader

just this once tw’s: kidnapping ? sort of lol, strong language

“Scarlet!” Comes your desperate wail, climbing over snowflakes and frigid wind only to be swallowed up by the ghost town that was Mount Ormond, “where are you?”

In a ballsy show of defiance, your little sister had made a secret escape into the fog after you turned her down for the fifth time to venture outside of camp.

“Why not?” She had demanded with a stomp of her foot, fists balled by her sides. “We already know we can’t be hurt outside of trials. What’s the harm in a little adventure?”

“Because we can’t know for sure,” You warn her sternly, not even bothering to cast her a glance. Your hard gaze focused on the fire you were too busy stoking. “We don’t know what’s out there.”

Thinking that was the end of the argument, you allowed Scarlet to stomp away in a huff of pre-teen angst, telling yourself that she would eventually cool off and forget about it. To your sheer terror, she was not waiting for you in the tent when you came to console her ten minutes later, not being able to stand the guilt that began to fester inside of you.

She was just a kid. Of course she would want to explore—she endured horrors in the trials no child, no person, should ever have to go through. She probably just needed some sort of outlet, some form of escape from the day to day monstrosities that your group fought against. You felt awful for not even trying to soften your approach.

But you swore, once you found her—you were going to rip her to pieces.

“Scarlet!” You cry again, arms curled protectively around your middle to shield against the cold. A shimmer of hair resembling your own whipped around the corner of an old ski lodge, your footfalls quickening to a light trot once you noticed. “Scarlet, I swear I’m going to kick your a—“

Your threat quickly dies in your throat as you round the building, finding your little sister hiding behind the figure of a man that struck terror in your heart.

A Legion member.

“Scarlet,” You don’t take your eyes off of him, voice wavering, “run away, now.”

“Why should I?” She sneers. “I’m fine right here.”

You want to cry.

You don’t know his name, but you recognize his all-black outfit immediately. Dark paint is smeared around his eyes resembling that of a mask—another form of hiding his true intentions behind a veil.

He gives you a once-over before speaking, “I didn’t do anything to her.”

Yet, you want to say, but instead purse your lips. “What do you want from her?”

The bastard has the gall to raise a brow quizzically at you. “Nothing,” He says. “She was all by herself out here when I found her. Not very responsible of you, might I add.” Your blood boils at that.

“Great, thanks for the input, asshole,” You hiss, voice thick with venom. “Why don’t you go and fuck off now? Don’t you have things to murder?” The way his brow comes back down and knits together with the other one tells you that you struck a nerve this time. You almost smirk in satisfaction.

“He’s not a murderer,” Scarlet defends almost immediately, stepping out from behind his legs. “Joey and I were just about to have a snowball fight.”

“Joey?” You bark out in disbelief. “You’re getting all buddy-buddy with the enemy now?”

“He’s my friend,” Scarlet growls back, going a step further to forcibly grab his hand. You’re ready to come to her rescue at that moment, but “Joey” doesn’t even flinch. He just looks down at her with an unreadable expression.

“Scarlet,” You try again, starting to lose patience with her, “seriously. Come back with me, now.”

“Or else what? You’ll put me in time out in the tent?”

That did it.

“Fine!” You snap, throwing your arms up in exasperation. “Fine. You want to be killed? Be my guest. Don’t come crying to me when he puts you on a fucking meat hook.”

You spin around after that, stomping away back to camp before the feeling of being hit by something cold stops you in your tracks. You turn your head, snow falling from your shoulders as you stare your little sister dead in the eyes.

“Beat us in a snowball fight and I’ll go back with you,” She wagers, already packing another one. Before you can tell her “no”, she hurls the next throw at you, causing you to ungracefully dodge out of the way and fall on your ass. Joey lets out a snicker, smirking at you as your icy gaze locks onto him. As if sensing your apprehension, he holds his hands up in a display of surrender.

“You heard her. You win, she goes back with you.”

“And if I don’t?”

“You stay here with us.” At your unsure frown, he rolls his eyes. “Not forever, obviously. A trial will pull you both away sooner or later.” You look back at Scarlet before taking a deep breath, standing to your feet.

“You’re on.”

Three missed throws, rosy red cheeks and five successful hits later, you’re down to your final match with Scarlet and Joey until either you or they win. And, as much as you hated to admit it, you’re having fun.

You’re out of breath and your heart is pounding from excitement rather than fear just like it used to years ago when you were a kid, and you can’t help but smile every time you peek around the corner to see Scarlet grinning wildly at Joey because he scored a hit for their team. The fucker had good aim.

It was like you were transported from this world back to your own for a few blissful minutes, no longer survivors running for your lives from bloodthirsty monsters but rather people having good old fun in the snow. The burden of trying to figure out how you were going to keep your little sister (and yourself) alive seemed to melt away all but for this moment.

As you peer around your shelter to get a good visual on where Scarlet was, your smile quickly gives way to that of a frown when you don’t spot either her or Joey hiding behind their snow mound. Fear immediately seizes your heart, but you give it a minute. Then two. Then three.

“Scarlet?” You call out nervously, spying no signs of movement. Silence brings you out from behind your hiding place. “Scar?” You start to panic. “Scarlet, answer—“

Cold, cold cold cold sensations steal your words away, a scream coming out instead as snow is incessantly dumped down your clothes. You try to jump away, arms flailing and making contact with your assailant who ends up falling with you—and on top of you.

“Son of a bitch!” You wheeze, eyes opening wide to that of Joey’s face right above yours. You immediately seize up, heart skipping a beat at the close proximity of the killer. It definitely wasn’t because of his boyish, charming white smile that made the sun behind his curly black locks brighten tenfold.

Laughter rings in your ears, and it takes a second to register that it’s coming from him.

It’s husky, hearty, and full of life. Not the usual sadistic, maniacal cackled that turned your blood to ice as it boomed behind you during a wild chase. It makes him surprisingly… human.

The next sound to process in your brain is Scarlet’s laughter; wheezy, and utterly amused at your reaction to being mowed down.

“Oh man!” She wipes a tear from her eye. “Your face looked so stupid, dude!”

Despite the remark, you can’t help but puff out an eased sigh. You were glad to have your sister back.

Joey pulls himself off of you, surprising you further by offering his hand to help you stand. You eye it warily, next searching his face for a beat before tentatively accepting the gesture. You’re on your feet in one fell swoop, disconnecting your hands the moment you’re steady.

“Well,” You clear your throat, “I guess that means you beat me, huh?”

“Oh fuck yeah it does,” Scarlet grins. You glare disapprovingly, but decide to ignore her foul language by rolling your eyes.

“So then… what now?”

Scarlet’s face falls, and she suddenly hangs her head. “Actually, I.. want to go back to camp,” She says, which surprises you. “It’s getting darker, and I just want to be back by the fire…”

You want to be mad—want to yell at her all over again for bringing you all the way out here just to go back, but a hand on your shoulder has you jerking your chin towards Joey. He fixes you with a look that is all-too-easy for you to read and understand, and you sigh, shrugging it off before placing your own hand on Scarlet’s shoulder. She looks up at you with sad, vulnerable eyes, and your resolve crumbles.

“Okay, let’s go,” You agree, then pause. “Race back?”

Something unreadable flashes across her face, and then she swats your hand away. “Pssh, I’m not five. I’ll walk back,” She harrumphs, pushing past you to high-five her teammate who chuckles endearingly. “Bye, Joey.”

“Seeya, kid,” He rasps, then focuses his eyes on you.

You can’t help the way your muscles contract and squeeze, expecting the assailant to lash out at any moment; to flash an evil smile, to brandish the knife he’s been hiding the entire time just waiting for the perfect time to drive it far between your ribcage until it crunches and twists your innards. But it never comes.

No words come to you, either. You don’t know if you should thank him—don’t know if you want to thank him—or if you should simply dismiss yourself and catch up to Scarlet. You opt for the latter, wordlessly stepping around Joey and trotting backwards before bounding after Scarlet.

He watches you go, the sun finally dipping beneath the trees, taking the last moments of daylight with it. Sighing, Joey pulls his mask from his jacket pocket, burning holes of hatred through the cutouts. Still, he puts it on and makes his way up the mountain; heeding the call of the Entity as the familiar pull of a trial gnaws at his bones, demanding to be reckoned with.

He just hoped it wasn’t one with you.

[thelemonsabbath]

You can deny it as much as you want…

As the blood covering Jun's body began to cool down in the aftermath of a fierce battle with demons, so did her devilbeast side's feral enjoyment of ripping flesh and spilling blood, the shame taking its place. Jun took a shaky breath as she looked down at her blood-stained claws. No matter how many times she had fought in battle she always felt this awful split nature within herself. There was a part of her that was excited and aroused by the blood and violence, and yet that also terrified her and made her feel deeply ashamed of herself. She would've thought her nature would swing more to the feral and violent side, once she had given up on the idea of being human anymore, and yet, the shame had remained...

Jun turned around when she heard the sound of crushing bone and splattering flesh behind her, seeing Akira trample on the corpse of a demon, loudly laughing and taunting it, "Stupid bastards. Your whole extinction has taught you nothing! You should have stayed where you belong!"

Jun felt a sense of both disgust and resentment towards her lover.  Did he not feel the awful and deep shame that she felt after each battle? It didn't seem that he did, so lost in the sheer lust for the fight, while she had to constantly war within herself for fear of losing herself. The resentment bubbling within Jun spilled over and she snarled at Akira, "Akira! What is wrong with you?! Why do you have to taunt them like this, we've already slaughtered them, isn't that enough? How can you love this utterly cruel violence?!" Jun's body shook a little after the words left her mouth, instantly regretting snapping at him like that.

Akira turned to her, his brows furrowing briefly in confusion. He stopped stomping on his fallen foe, who was already becoming mushy paste at this point, "What's wrong with me? You're the one to talk! Didn't you also flash that lovely grin of yours while you fought your enemies, and didn't you also laugh at how easily you were able to rend them apart?" he said with a wide grin as he started walking towards Jun, the blood covering his strong and muscled body glistening in the moonlight, the sight bringing back up those aroused feelings within her. "Not to mention you look so beautiful when you are like this, your powerful and beautiful body covered in their blood.." The way his deep voice was becoming sensual regarding her brutality sent more shivers of excitement down Jun's spine. "N-No...That's not me..."

Once Akira reached Jun, his bloodied, clawed hand grasped onto her breast and pushed her against a tree," You can deny it as much as you want but the truth is, you enjoy it too..."

Jun was shocked at his words, wanting to deny them, but she also felt her devilbeast side flare up, grinning wildly, excited by the challenge he was presenting physically and verbally. She couldn't deny his words for they were deeply true. She did enjoy feeling powerful and dominating, it freed her from a normal life of being meek and accommodating for the sake of others, and with her devilbeast rising up, the shame of that truth started to melt away. Jun clawed into the tree and practically purred as he gave her breast a squeeze. "More..." she demanded, reciprocating by leaning further into his touch.

Akira's hand left her breast to gently grasp her neck, leaving behind a blood-stained collar. But as he looked harder at his work, his smile died away, for his mind was brought back to another who had blood around her neck and the look of sheer horror and pain on her face... Miki... Miki... suddenly Akira could hear the triumphant roar of a mob, smell the scent of burning and blood in the air and... and the utter loss of himself he had felt in losing Miki...

Akira recoiled back and clutched his face, feeling shame flood over him at his failure to protect Miki and his bloodlust of battle, remembering how, on the night of the broadcast, that before Miki had been convinced of his humanity, she too had screamed in terror at seeing his violence... No wonder Jun had called him out him earlier...

Upon seeing Akira shrink away from her and cover his face, Jun felt her devilbeast fade away, her humanity returning with her growing sympathy for the clear pain Akira was in, and she reached out to him as he fell to his knees. "Akira, it's okay, I'm right here," Jun soothingly said as she hugged Akira, both of them shifting back into their human forms. Akira clutched onto Jun, burying his face in her shoulder, not yet ready to look her in the eye, "I don't know... I don't know what to do... All this time I've loved this power, no-one could push me around and hurt me again, but now..." he said quietly.

"It's okay, Akira, I forgive you, and you weren't wrong about me..." Jun replied as she stroked his hair.

"And neither were you..." Akira countered as he lifted his head to look at Jun, his eyes terribly sad, "Before, it was all so simple, but now, I don't know what to do with this power but fight... I don't know what's right anymore..." 

Jun squeezed him, feeling her heart ache for him. "We'll find a way together," she said with a soft, reassuring smile. Akira smiled back at her, feeling grateful that he had Jun in his second chance at life... 

I'm back with another fun and bloody picture commissioned by TheMightyNanto of Akira and Jun having a sensual moment after fighting some demons and Akira asking Jun to admit to herself that she also enjoys the blood and violence as much he does. >:3 this was a pretty fun piece to draw and also write, as you've might've guessed from my bloodlust Ryo/Miki pic I sometimes like to mix bloody and sensual themes together in my fiction :D and this was wonderfully feral and bloody to create. So many thanks to TheMightyNanto for commissioning me on this piece I had a ton of fun playing with the themes and playing around with colours! :D  

Btw if you like what you see and want a commission drop me a direct message on tumblr, instagram, a note on deviantart or artistree https://artistree.io/missn11

[solaneceae]

banquet

a team bolas oneshot (read on ao3) tw: cannibalism, gore (team bolas things indeed)

Purgatory-induced madness is like the tide. Sometimes it rushes in, licking at their feet and drowning their reflection in off-white seafoam, stripping them of all sense of self.  Time stretches and distorts time like a rubber band, minutes feeling like hours and hours like seconds.

The first time it happens, they all come out of it shaky and horrified, with the taste of foreign, fresh blood on their tongue and tricolored death messages filling the global chat, along with many interrogation points and ‘what the fuck is wrong with red team’ and ‘run the fuck away dont engage’ and ‘they dont have shit its not worth it’. They’re also completely alone, stuck in unfamiliar caves or forests, and the lack of the others, pack, flock, mine quickly drives them to force themselves into respawn, uncaring of the gear and materials they’ll lose.

From that moment on, they realise they might have a problem. So they do tests, and they learn that isolation is a no-no, because Cellbit starts to yowl for them after a few minutes of them being out of sight. The birds all begin to stress-pluck and over-groom their wings after about twenty minutes of being left alone, Foolish digs a circle into the coarse dirt as he paces and paces like a goldfish in a bowl (“Did you know, that the fish—” “Baghera. Baghera, I love and adore you, but I will kill you and eat your leg like it’s confit, fuck the ground rules.”) and Slime’s glitching reaches a point where he can’t even stand or communicate anymore.

So, when they all reunite and  press their sides together for comfort, pawing at their arms and faces in a cacophony of shaky trills (avians and feline and slime hybrids alike), they decide they need a tether. And the tether is each other.

Phil thinks that the place is messing with their code in a way Quesadilla didn’t, something about mob instincts being unlocked. Cellbit huffs but stops denying the allegations, because you don’t actually need to show much mob features to qualify as hybrid, apparently. Everything feels almost foreign now, a long-dormant part of their brain now active and flooding their minds with dumb shit like pack mentality, which is made a lot worse by the sheer amount of trauma they’ve just went through as a unit. In short, they’re well and truly fucked, because the other teams have demons and humans and those do a hell of a lot better in high-stress situations like these than hybrids. Flock? Baghera quacks, a sound she’s never done before. Flock? 

Flock, Jaiden trills back with a rustling of her wings. Those two are the most jumpy of them all, prey instincts rendering them prone to run and startle. Flock, safe, Phil crows at them, his own fucked up wings coming to brush against theirs. Yesyes. Cellbit approaches, making himself smaller (cat on the prowl, he doesn’t want to scare them off, tries, tries) and bumping his head against Phil’s shoulder. “Okay?” he asks, and if he could purr right now he probably would be. Phil smiles. “Yeah. We’re okay.”

Things get a bit better after that. The madness still creeps in, but they feel more in control, more grounded when they’re in a group. They get used to it, the guilt and horror ebbing away. Also, it makes them harder to pick out, makes kills easier. It works, Blue and Green learn to avoid them, because they don’t bother to armor up or stack up on anything worthwhile, but they can just keep reviving and coming after the invading-trespassing enemy, again and again, until they wear them down with sheer numbers and ferocity. They don’t even loot them, because they just. Don’t. Care.

All they know is survival, and the pack-flock. All of them, together.

Cellbit learns the taste of every one of them. Bad’s blood is foul, bitter and sour with soul corruption, so they leave his corpses alone. Fit’s arm is tough, pure lean muscle and not an ounce of fat. (Étoiles’ taste he’s curious about, but the guy never engages with them. Says it’s not fun. Fair enough.) He tears out a strip of flesh out of Tubbo’s leg, and Philza shoots him a disapproving look. “You shouldn’t eat that shit raw, mate,” the crow chastises him, still somehow able to father them around even in the throes of bloodlust. “You’re gonna catch some nasty stuff.”

(Cellbit remembers seeing Philza swoop in from above, flightless but still as graceful and deadly as he imagines an Angel of Death to be. He remembers the crow, eyes wide and dark-too-dark, hands and wrists tainted black by Death-touch as his talons rip and tear through hair and armor and tender, tender flesh. He remembers thinking how lucky he was to have Phil here, with them. Pack. Pack.)

He spots Jaiden eagerly ripping out tender livers and chewy hearts from still-warm chest cavities, passing them over to Baghera who carries them to the hidden coldbox, feathers now permanently dyed red no matter how much she scrubs. She’s not their most efficient fighter, what with the lack of talons or claws or teeth and all, but she’s insanely good at building and organising their shit.

(Carré drops by sometimes, and they all cheer for his presence. But he never stays for long, unnerved by their dynamic and by the mad glint in their eyes. None of them blame him, they’re just grateful he still sticks around. And he does join the occasional sleep pile, which is very nice because his onesie is warm and soft.)

“Hey Cellbit?”

He hums, wiping blood off his cheek. Foolish grins down at him, handing him a slab of juicy-looking meat. “Gift!”

The detective (was he even still that? Or just a murderer?) blinks, slow. “You don’t want it?”

“Nah,” the totem shrugs. “Enemy corpses are fine in a pinch, but I’m more of a fish guy and I got enough right how.”

“Mmh. Thanks.”

He takes the offering in both hands, blood oozing out of the piece as he tears into it ravenously. It’s a nice cut, marbled with fat, but not enough to make it sit too heavily on his stomach. “Dude, gross,” Slime grimaces at his right, glasses and shirt splattered with blood. His arm glitches, his next words jumbled and sluggish with code corruption. “At least give it a lil’ sear, lil’ mallard reaction on both sides, kill the germs and shit.”

“You’re so american, Charlie,” Baghera pipes up from behind them, washing her wings in the stream. They all know it won’t get rid of the stains. “You guys would wash your food with bleach if you could. I should make a steak tartare for you one day, you’ll see.”

“Yerk. Hard pass.”

“You mean hard like the meat you overcook?”

“Fuck you, Baghera.”

She laughs, airy and a little too loud. “You love me.”

Jaiden chirps as she nuzzles into her side, flock, flock, and the other gives her a ducky kiss on the back of her head. Flock. “I want in on that,” Slime gets up to join the two birds on the sand, and Jaiden pulls him down for an impromptu preening session, right there, between the still cooling bodies of their foes. “Bro, we are so fucked up,” Phil cackles, half-disbelief half-manic energy.

“No shit, I’m wearing Pierre’s entrails as a stylish scarf right now,” Foolish grins, shark-like. “We’re kinda past that. Gotta say, I haven’t had this much fun in centuries.”

“Oh shit, Baghera look he’s dropping some juicy lore right now, write that down.”

“Foolish lore, yeaaaaaah.”

“Is this lore? Are we loreing right now, guys?”

And it’s all so strangely domestic amongst all the blood and viscera, it makes Cellbit want to laugh. To think that those same people would have probably thrown him in jail for killing those workers just a few days ago, and now here they were. Eagerly killing and gutting, all for each other.

(They weren’t leaving Purgatory with their sanity intact, or their other relationships for that matter. But at least they would have each other.)

[paging-possum]

So one of my friends who makes games (here’s her itch.io, she’s made some REALLY neat stuff AND is currently making some even neater stuff right now that I may or may not be helping with) recently told me about the concept of developer logs. And I heard that and immediately was like… “Well I love talking about my projects…and I’m currently working on a comic.” So I'm making the Milwaukee Protocol devlog! Which will hopefully keep me on track with working on it! I’ll also throw in smaller updates about other side projects at the same time, just for fun. 

Milwaukee Protocol is a horror comic about- you guessed it- rabies. It follows Lyssa (named for everyones favorite virus, lyssavirus) after she gets bitten by a weird animal in the woods and starts experiencing rabies-like symptoms despite the fact that medically, there’s nothing wrong with her. It’s about losing control! It’s about changing in ways nobody understands! It’s about suffering the consequences of completely avoidable choices! It’s about instilling the sheer terror/fascination surrounding rabies that I’ve had since I was a child in other people! I’m not sure how coherent it is, but it’s still being written, and at the very least I’m excited about it.

I’m still writing the script and working on actually figuring out what everything and everyone looks like (something I skimped on for the last comic I made, which I think made it suffer), but I’m hoping to put my all into this one! I’m hoping to have the script done by mid-November, and this is where we are now. 

Thrilling. I know. God I love Notion. I'll hopefully have actual drawings of them next week but it has been a very overwhelming 2 weeks and also im sick so things are going very very slow.

While I figure out how to put this beast together, I'm also trying to put together some search and find pages just for fun- I started one for the Fool tarot card, since it felt like a fun theme to start with. That said, I'm not a huge fan of the composition so I might go back and redraw it. I'm also making a comic for college using a rubber duck as an allegory for having a crush on someone because they make you do weird stuff in art school sometimes.

I'm also listening to a bunch of stuff this week! A lot of Parkdale Haunt, which is a horror podcast about two women and the creepy old house that one of them inherits. Probably not the best when my only roommate right now is a fridge that makes sounds like human breathing, but that’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make for a good horror podcast. 

[agentnico]

MaXXXine (2024) review

Maxine is a star, yet this movie lacks that X-factor.

Plot: In 1980s Hollywood, adult film star and aspiring actress Maxine Minx finally gets her big break. However, as a mysterious killer stalks the starlets of Los Angeles, a trail of blood threatens to reveal her sinister past.

X was one of the creepiest and entertaining horror films of recent years, as it was a delightful homage to the 70s slasher horror genre, featuring brutal kills, a tense atmosphere, uncensored self-aware sexual sequences and surprising dashes of humour. Still recall the bloodshot red scene where the creepy old lady dances over the dead body of the guy she just brutally stabbed to death as Blue Öyster Cult’s “(Don’t Fear) The Reaper” blasts through the van’s radio. It was such a stylistic thriller that was a blast. Then the prequel Pearl was a delightfully disturbing companion piece. Mia Goth’s acting was so good in that as every time she started to scream or have a mental breakdown it gave me sheer anxiety. So when I heard Ti West was making a third and supposed final entry to this unique horror trilogy, I was naturally excited and was looking forward to seeing how the third film would connect the aspects of the previous two and deliver another thrilling slice of the X-factor.

The movie is fine. Think 1984’s Body Double mixed in with the love-letter/memory of star power in Los Angeles from 2019’s Once Upon a Time in Hollywood. Like it’s predecessors X and Pearl, this is a gleeful dive into retro 80s move tropes with vivid period evocation, and Ti West’s ambition with this entry is clear - ‘it’s a B-movie with A ideas.” At least that is how Elizabeth Debicki (very reminiscent of Cate Blanchett in this role) as an ice-cool British filmmaker trying to break the status quo describes her ambition, which feels like that came right from Ti West’s heart. If we look at the trilogy as a whole, that’s what he seems to have been doing - paying loving homages to filmmaking aesthetics of particular eras, whilst trying to add a modernised spin. In X we had the Texas Chainsaw Massacre dark and dirty grindhouse flair; in Pearl he tackled midcentury melodrama through the lens of Technicolor musicals; now with MaXXXine we have the 80s murder mystery. In regards to the look the film nails that 80s vibe, from the soundtrack picks to the filters to reimagining the trashy-flashy sleaze of Hollywood Boulevard in that era, the aesthetic is spot-on. The ensemble supporting cast is bigger this time around too, with a lot of familiar faces appearing and having fun in their over-the-top performances.

That being said MaXXXine is easily the weakest of the three films. There’s a real lack of actual horror in the film, as well as the aforementioned X-factor. Look I’m not saying I want to perv on lots of sexual content, but the previous entries have had a lot of fun at mocking the pornographic industry, and I enjoyed how those films let loose and fully embraced the lack of censorship. With MaXXXine however it felt like Ti West all of a sudden became afraid of showing too much, and that included the gore also. I enjoyed the multiple instances of goopy practical effects, however aside from a foot-to-the-nutsack moment, there wasn’t any bloody or violent moments that really gave any shock value. It’s strange, it felt like something was stopping this movie from fully stretching itself. Narratively also this movie suffers from a severe identity crisis, where on one side it wants to play out its 80s murder mystery, but on the other hand it also is the trilogy caper to the X films. It’s with the latter where it really loses itself, as there is no sense of cohesion. Mia Goth is again fantastic in her role (since A Cure for Wellness she’s a unbreakable force among the scream queens), however Maxine as a character is completely different to what she was in the first film. Also from how X ended, I felt like her character was going a certain way, and with how Pearl emphasised the ideology of going psychotically mad for star power, it felt like Maxine was going to go that more mentally turning route, but no, the movie goes for the more generic killer route which was disappointing. I feel as a stand-alone MaXXXine is a passable whodunnit mystery set under the 80s LA backdrop (even if it’s filled with cliches and predictable twists), but as part of an ongoing franchise it fails majorly.

As for the aforementioned cast - Mia Goth is a star indeed. Maxine is the least interesting character she has had to work with during the course of this trilogy, yet she still manages to bring the intensity and determination to bring this persona to life. Her delivery of “MAXINE FUCKING MINX” is spot-on. Giancarlo Esposito for once actually playing a good guy was pleasantly goofy and silly. Bobby Cannavale and Michelle Monaghan make for a fun cop duo, with Halsey and Lily Collins in glorified cameos. Kevin Bacon gets to have way too much fun as a sleazy PI, and he chews up every line he gets, even if his role in the long run turns out to be pointless and wasted. Overall though this is Mia Goth’s show through and through, and props to her for managing to make a one-dimensional character pop.

As a major fan of the previous two films I cannot deny finding MaXXXine to be hugely disappointing. On its own it stands as a fashionable knock-off of Body Double (those that movie did it better, just saying), but this is a baffling conclusion to what was a promising trilogy. Ti West you almost had me fooled there for a couple of movies, but no, this one is a waste of potential. That being said I still enjoyed it for what it was, and if ever a boutique physical media label like Arrow Video or Second Sight decide to release a special nifty looking Blu-ray box-set of the X films I’ll happily and proudly have them in my collection.

Overall score: 5/10

[gashface]

AHHHH GUYS, YOU SCARED ME!

This weeks prompt, was created to see a different side of the models. Whether it be embracing their fears or learning about new phobias! This week we wanted to see the element of fear through the story but mainly the choice of edit, how the models display this fear.

Now onto the results!

Charline Morel by @cyazurai

Some say that it’s not the dark itself that people are afraid of, but what’s hiding in the dark. But not that’s not necessarily true for some with nyctophobia. To them, the dark itself is an entity worthy of fear. It’s suffocating; it’s lonely; if you were to be dying quietly in the dark, who would know? And who knows if the light will ever come back? In a place with no lights and no windows, the dark feels like it’s alive around you. Ready to slip its spidery fingers around your neck and down your throat; holding tight to you as the life slowly slips out with the last vestiges of light. Yes, that’s right. Darkness is not just an absence of light. If you listen carefully, you can hear it breathe. It’s just biding its time until your light is gone.

POINTS

ORIGINALITY: 9/10

STORY: 9/10

EXECUTION: 7/10

STYLE: 8/10

Ember Arendse by @wolfrynn313

Ember: "For this week's prompt of Fear, I wanted to express not one, but two fears of mine. The first, is a fear of being used by somebody else and losing control of my own agency - like a puppet on string helpless to control my next move. I value my independence and agency very much, so the idea of losing it is a terrifying concept to me indeed. The second, is, well: people. Supernatural horror can be disturbing of course, but what really chills me are the people who can bring themselves to cause others harm - be it murder, abuse or assault. My look for the second concept is also based off an urban legend that I heard as a kid: Olive Spectre, a black widow known for murdering her husbands. lovers and even courting the grim reaper!"

POINTS

ORIGINALITY: 8/10

STORY: 8/10

EXECUTION: 9/10

STYLE: 9/10

Parker Winston by @morgynemberisagenderfluiddaddy

Hemophobia is the fear of blood, Sanguivoriphobia is the fear of vampires. But I have a question; What the hell do you call a vampire with hemophobia? Better yet, what do you call a vampire that is so disgusted by blood that he's vegan? These are genuine questions that keep me up at night. When I was in high school, I had to work a blood drive for extra credit. I was supposed to log each bag of blood we got and take it to the truck. I dropped one of the crates, and the bags exploded like a bloody volcano. The rest of that's been pretty much blocked from my memory, but I'm willing to bet that's why I'm the way I am. As much as I hate blood and want to hurl at the sheer thought of it, these days, I don't have a lot of time to process it as much. Not with the trail of bodies I have chasing me. But hell, I feel like this isn't even the most contradictory thing about me.

POINTS

ORIGINALITY: 9/10

STORY: 8/10

EXECUTION: 8/10

STYLE: 9/10

Dillion Carter by @mewo-ita

Idea: Scopophobia (The fear of being seen in public or stared at by others; partly inspired by Omori.) The fall was an accident, or at least that’s what he told himself. The blank stares pierced his bones with an icy stab and made his hands tremble. The past few years was spent hidden in his apartment with inescapable fear; the rugged man constantly recollecting what had happened in his teen years. A rebellious student in his class named Dillion who had continuously rejected his advances— he had “accidentally” pushed them down steep stairs; their neck broke on impact. The image burned into memory of lifeless eyes staring back at him as he fled. No one connected him to the scene so he was free, but whenever in public from then on, a gaze was stabbing daggers into his back. Every night, whenever he habitually looks out of the peephole to see if the torment is finally over, he can see Dillion scrutinizing him with no emotion. Just staring. Whenever he attempted to leave or confront them, his limbs shook and crumbled under him. He was pathetic. All he can see every second is eyes. Their eyes…

POINTS

ORIGINALITY: 8/10

STORY: 10/10

EXECUTION: 10/10

STYLE: 9/10

OKAY GUYS IF YOU KNOW ME, I LOVE HORROR OR ANYTHING THAT BRINGS FEAR~!~ SO THE EFFORT AND UNIQUE IDEAS YOU ALL TOOK FOR THIS WEEK I WAS SO IMPRESSED!

Once again, I want to thank you all for the dedication. The effort you all put in every week just makes me so proud, and also the fact this competition has encouraged me to be social too! I've loved talking to you guys and just seeing how creative you all are.

The next prompts will be the last!

NO HINT AS I'LL BE DIRECTLY POSTING THE PROMPT RIGHT AFTER THIS :))

Thanks guys x

- Buddy

[jodjuya]

I'm dismayed by the referendum outcome but completely unsurprised by it.

I voted "YES" while angry about it.

Angry about it being the most pathetically milquetoast paper tiger possible,

angry that such a piddling insignificant thing was enough to further unify the cookers and the racists (not that there's much of a meaningful division between the two to begin with),

angry that those dropkicks got to freely whitewash their reprehensible nonsense by latching onto the many legitimate concerns about how fucking dodgy the proposal was,

angry that I felt obliged to vote "YES"—despite fully believing the proposal was fucking terrible—out of sheer irrational spite and wrathful indignation toward the very thought of being aligned in the slightest with Australia's broad spectrum fascism-would-be-good-actually crowd,

angry that no matter how pathetic, vague, and incoherent the YES-campaign was, the NO-campaign would be even worse AND that Australia would fall for it hook, line, and sinker; because Australians are an uptight, boorish, and fearfully conservative people with contemptible predictability,

angry that all of this hoopla and utterly deranged dogwhistling became the culture war's hot topic of the month, and Indigenous Australians were subjected to the indignity of a national public debate over whether or not we should say we're thinking about bullying them less,

[Like, "sorry mate, we held a public vote, AND you voted too don't forget! You had your fair say just like the rest of us did! You can't get rid of democracy just because you don't like that you didn't win. Now stop struggling and let the four of us flush your head down the toilet or we'll break your nose first, nerd" (🤮)]

angry that this whole bullshit fucking referendum was lose-lose with extra lose on the side,

angry that I have to attempt to explain the nuances of this lose-lose with extra lose to my child—which I'm thankfully inept at doing so before she loses interest, and so her innocent perception of the world is maintained for the time being—those nuances being:

if YES:

We get constitutional embodiment of "The Voice", an ineffable body as politically significant as the winner of Australian Idol, thanks to coming with so many point-of-failure loopholes that literally what the fuck is even the fucking point of doing this; this is so embarrassingly incompetent, are you for real this stupid at your job that you submitted the first draft minimal effort as your final essay, or can we all just reasonably assume this is merely some bit of insincere virtue-signalling chicanery?

(big "it took me an hour to write those two pages of dialogue, so I thought it would take you an hour to read them!" energy. Funny when Matt Groening does it, but much less so when it's from your so called nation's so called leaders. 😒)

if NO:

(1) holy fucking shit, we can't even collectively bring ourselves to go through the motions of beginning to unfuck our relationship with Indigenous Australians! I have so many negative feelings about that, but right this sec it's mostly shame. If the world was a kindergarten classroom, Australia is the child eating glue.

(2) relief that such a malformed stillbirth of a proposal didn't come into being; with additional relief that its existence now can't be used to justify future heel-dragging.

(3) visceral disgust at knowing there will be many cookers and other assorted far-right degenerates out there being overjoyed with celebration that this mere feint of national movement towards progressivism was shot down

(4) existential horror and Cassandran anguish over knowing that this failure WILL be used to block and forestall progress on all relevant progressivist movements. Like, losing a referendum is the death knell of a movement. Pattern clearly observable throughout history. Recently in New Zealand's attempt at cannabis reform, then further back with Australia's attempts to become a republic, and so on and so forth.

(5) frustration that how could the people doing this not foresee this extremely detrimental outcome and how obviously they were setting themselves up for this failure?? How are our leaders such incompetent and/or conniving bastards?!

(6) irritated frustration that fascism-would-be-good-actually's garbage rhetoric for garbage brains, and the far-right grifters peddling it, have had their whitewashing attempts legitimised and gotten the Overton window ratcheted one step further to the right

with extra lose:

👎🏻 aforementioned indignity of a national public debate over whether or not we should say we're thinking about bullying the Indigenous less

👎🏻 we had to sincerely engage with the incoherent codswallop put forth by the cockwombles of the 'reactionary NO' campaign and their delusional insistence that we "can't make such a divisive change to the constitution" as if the constitution wasn't inherently divisive in every sense of the word since before the ink had even dried on the page, given that it was predicted upon Terra Nullis?

Like, what the entire fuck could be more divisive than "we declare that our country is allowed to exist because we declare that you don't exist! Finders keepers, bitches!!"??

👎🏻 having to wade through the army of well-intentioned muppets volunteering at every polling location to hand out "How To Vote" pamphlets as if filling in this referendum's single yes/no question were anywhere near as complicated as the one-metre-wide ballots for the big state/federal elections

********

Just yuck feelings all around. There was no possibility of a good outcome, and this wasn't the least-bad outcome.

[the-narwhals-awaken]

For context, somebody in my writing discord server mentioned Eldritch Bad Wolf, and as the server cosmic horror enthusiast, I thought I'd have a go.

... we can go a lot into how eldritch stuff actually works- for the real hit of eldritch impact is not in the knowing, in the expanding into a new world and plane of existence, but in coming back to what you knew and losing the ability to explain- you understand it, you understand it perfectly, and yet nobody will believe you and you cannot convince a soul.

in relevant context, you've got Rose taking action- direct action, something needed, and looking. She Sees. She Knows. She Changes. (the last based upon your personal preference and AU of choice). And then she goes back. On the most typical path (not that other options are bad, this is just the most common one) she loses the one person she knew might be able to understand, might have the context to understand her and what she did, and by the time she knows and trusts the new him again, either she's put it to the side as a later problem or he's proven that it's not going to end as well as she needs/wants it to be- as we've shown before, nothing against Ten, but he does take running from his problems to a significantly unhealthy degree even going off of the Doctor's usual scale. So she can't tell anyone- can't get a proper physical response, the hugs and comfort that human bodies still need. And so she changes in silence, watched and helped only by the TARDIS- who is amazing, but is also far beyond the scope and scale of one Bad Wolf still trapped in three dimensions and moving through the fourth. She becomes something new, something even she, who has seen all of Time and Space, has never seen before.

And there are consequences to that. Mistakes she makes- whether of the pushing too far and gaining the consequences (screaming migranes, weak spots in Time, etc) or not knowing what to do or how to process things leading to incorrect or less correct options, and the usual frailties of a human mind and morals behind a being of unimaginable temporal power.

And fragile human shells are not meant to contain such power. The children of Gallifrey, born to this and specifically adapted over millenia of work and centuries of life to exposure to temporal radiation were not meant to hold even a fraction of what lies in her body even in its resting state, so much that only sensors meant to understand the Vortex itself can even detect anything beyond her sheer presence. Her hair is the first thing to go- a natural blonde, now, instead of her dyed shade. At first, it doesn't seem so bad. She gets stronger, faster, gets better reflexes and better perception of what's going on. She heals quicker, more thoroughly. Aches and pains from long days of travel and running fade.

Then it starts turning against her. Things repair too fast to strengthen again, and the ache of healing muscle and ligament and tendon becomes part of her life- too much, too fast, taking too much energy. She sleeps either hours at a stretch or barely minutes, but her mind doesn't always keep up with her body's demands- whether to move move move or to stop, energy sapped away. She's always hungry, or never hungry. Too hot, or too cold. And sometimes, late at night, when the Doctor's at the other end of the ship and she's sitting alone in a dark corner of the hallways where she wandered in an attempt to wear herself out a bit she sees the gold swirl away from her again, twisting away from her form like her appearance is only the way it is because she presumes it to be.

Did her eyes always have that ring around the pupil? Were they always that light of a shade? Did she always look like what she sees in the mirror, or is it based on her own memory and self-perception?

Her piercings close. They were flaws, scars, and they vanish over the course of three weeks- closing up from the inside out till there isn't even a faint dip to show where they'd been for over a decade. Old scars begin to fade- first, the ones from childhood, little memories that were already half-gone from time and bleedover from the advanced technology they used to help heal themselves in the TARDIS. Then newer ones- the remnants of bruised knuckles that built up from years of questionable punches, the old marks left over from when knives slipped in the kitchen, the traces of her mistake at sixteen with Jimmy. Then the ones she'd gained while traveling- little burns and nicks and scrapes and lines, little things that might have eventually built up but hadn't ever been anything much, just another memory.

Her skin is the best it's ever been- the only flaws the callouses she built up from running, from climbing, from the life they live, and even those are only as big as they need to be and still softer than they should seem. There are no marks on her skin- why would there be? She is so full of power that any mark was removed.

Sometimes, she worries a little. Her past made her, and yet she is losing the traces of it every day. With every scar that fades, every little freckle and scrape and remnant of life that vanishes, every little lump and strand of hair out of place that disappears like they were never there, she loses the little reminders. That she was human, that she lived, that she was mortal and just like them. Her past will always be her past- she knows that much, that when she was all of it she made sure she would always exist, but she also knows the power of the little details. Slight changes that could throw whole worlds into play. Single interactions that would start new stories on their tracks. Countless possibilities all so similar, almost unnoticeably different.

The Doctor doesn't say anything. Part of her thinks he doesn't notice. Part of her thinks he's just scared. Part of her doesn't want to know. So she doesn't say anything either.

The first time she looks in the mirror to see golden eyes staring back, she flinches.

Eventually, she knows, she will not.

[lils-of-the-valley]

Mind and Heart

AO3

The room is silent, almost deadly from its quiet. Three bodies are the only source of heat in the old conference room; the cold of winter is harsh on the walls of the old crumbling monastery. Three bodies heat the room, one on each side of the wooden table, and one to the side, refusing to choose either leader. They’re supposed to be working together, not against each other.

“You’ve grown soft, Claude. So soft that your friends have died. Died from your recklessness and your sentimentality.”

Claude snaps at the woman, his sharp warning reminding her of his place in her, no, their fleet. She needs him, they both know that, but that won’t stop her. It might be their fight, they might rely on each other, but she’s the one with the education, the knowledge, the upbringing. They’re both leaders, but Edelgard is the one who grew up with that expectation; Claude’s leadership is but a happy accident.

“You’re a warrior who’s meant to lead his troupes. Lead them to victory, not to their demise. I taught you to lead with your mind, not your heart, and yet here we are, blood on our hands. Blood that had no business being spilled.”

She’s cold. She’s calculating. She doesn’t want her troupes to die, but not because of the bond she has with her soldiers. She needs them, but she hasn’t brought herself to love them. At least, not the way Claude has. Claude leads with humanity; Edelgard leads with knowledge. They both knew this would end in war between them at some point, but it had worked. They’ve been fighting side-by-side for years now. Their differences caused conflicts in this very conference room, but everything had always been resolved. Every dispute has led to better ideas. Or at least, their differences had never led to significant losses. Not until now.

“You think I wanted this? You think I wanted this bloodshed? You think I wanted to lose my second in command?”

Claude’s fingers dig into the rich wood of the table. Bare nails carve their presence into it, evidence of his frustration that will last forever, evidence that will find itself in the history books that will be written when this war will finally be over.

“Unlike you, I can’t just brush off the feelings when someone dies. Unlike you, I have to not only deal with the pain myself, but I have to cheer the troupes up. Because I’m not the only one who lost someone dear to them. But then again,” his fingers relax, revealing the fresh indentation of the wood, and he cocks his head to the side with a bitter smirk, “what was I expecting from the emperor of the Adrestian Empire? The selfish and prideful and vain emperor. All that matters are your numbers and your advancement.”

Edelgard watches him from a distance, her eyes never leaving his face, not even once. It’s the way she’s been raised to rule: never let your guard down; always show that you’re on top. She doesn’t let anyone see how she’s feeling; her emotions are concealed behind the face of a strong emperor. She almost glows in the dim room, glows against the horrors of war.

But across from her, Claude is tired. He’s frustrated. He’s the opposite of the Adrestian emperor, the leader of the Alliance that wears his heart on his sleeve. He’s a great schemer, everyone knows that, but he’s not the best at putting his feelings aside when it comes to lost lives and war. The dark circles are proof of his sleepless nights spent thinking of ways to avoid death, both for himself and for his troupes. He doesn’t stand as tall as the woman in front of him. If anything, he looks like he’s about to crumble, crumble from sheer exhaustion and exasperation.

“Do you think it does nothing to me when—”

“Hilda is dead!”

Something from that cry strikes Edelgard, but just for a moment. She recomposes herself rather quickly, both hands folded themselves. She speaks once more with that clear and crisp voice of hers, a voice that has left chills in her audiences.

“Claude, this is your sentimentality speaking once more. Please compose yourself. Captain Goneril will be remembered as someone exceptional and you will learn to lead with more of an iron fist next time. You’re still my general and I need you to start being rational. This war won’t be won by matters of the heart, Claude.”

“Captain Goneril…” Claude snorts. He looks even worse than at the beginning of the conversation. He looks like he sees ghosts circling the emperor’s head. “You can’t even say her name, just her rank. But please, please my dearest Emperor,” venom coats the title, the strongest of the Alliance’s leader’s poisons, “tell me, what good is a title given by you if I’m slowly driven to madness from all my sleepless nights? Tell me, what good does a title holds when my friends die in your little game of chess? What good is a damned title when it changes nothing in the way we’re all dropping like flies on the battlefield?”

His words grew louder and harsher, more frantic than ever. Claude was right; he was growing madder as the months of war stretched on and his own nights of sleep became less and less frequent. There was too much going on in that head of his. He had told his friends so much. He had confided in his professor. But with the never-ending war, there was nothing more that he could do except push forth and hope for the end.

Or let himself be consumed by his own delusions and madness.

“That’s right,” another snort, some sort of choked laughter, “you have nothing to say to that, do you? Because you know I’m right. This whole thing is insane and you know that your way of leading isn’t right. You’re too far from your armies; you lead them like they’re pawns on a board. You don’t care for the losses; you just care for an end. Your end.”

“Claude,  please—”

“I saw you as a friend, Edelgard. I thought we could lead Fódlan to a brighter tomorrow, one where the wall would be taken down, one where we could all be united. I thought you were like me on that point; that’s the only reason I agreed to join you. But clearly, I was wrong. I was wrong to think that you cared about my people, about your people, about our friends.”

“Claude, you’re being irrational again.”

She takes a deep breath before she continues. She’s reassessing her words, thinking about them carefully before letting them flutter free for the man to seize. She doesn’t want another outburst from him. She doesn’t want to drive him away more than she already has. More than he’s already driven himself.

“You know as well as I that we’re not here to make friends. This is war. This is bloodshed. This is a massacre. We knew this from the start. We knew there would be blood on our hands, the blood of our enemies and the blood of our allies. We knew we had to lead with an iron fist, not with a heart of gold. Emotions only get in the way of our schemes, of our victory. Just look at you. Look at the condition you’re in.”

There’s a pause in the conversation. Edelgard watches Claude’s chest rise and fall, watching him struggle to breathe. Had he been hit during the previous battle? Is he suffering from something hidden, something he’s disregarded due to his blind fury about Hilda’s passing? Or is it anger choking him?

“I’m not here to make friends, and I don’t think you’re here to learn from me. We misjudged our situations and, perhaps until now, it has worked in our favor, but that time has ended. I mistook you for someone that was ready to be my general, but that was my error.” Violet eyes pierced every heart, sharper than the lances that lined the wall. “Claude von Riegan, I release you from your position as a general of the Adrestian army.”

Silence hangs heavy in the room. Edelgard’s words were clear and precise, as if she had rehearsed them for weeks. There was not a stumble nor a pause, just a flow as smooth as the run of a river. Her heart had no say in what came out of her mouth, a true demonstration of her motto: rule with the mind, not the heart. There is no place for passions in the midst of a war.

“You…”

Claude straightens his back, suddenly looking far taller. He wasn’t the tallest man they had encountered, but in this room, in this old conference room that felt like it was caving in on itself, he seemed taller than even the worst of the demonic beasts they had slain.

“Fine, but hear this before I leave.  You may be releasing me from my position in this army, but that won’t take my convictions away. You won’t take my beliefs away. I will continue to fight for the unification of Fódlan. I will continue to fight for the people. Because at least I know what I’m fighting for. But you, Edelgard, do you know what you’re fighting for?” He cocks his head to the side, that sly smile of his reappearing. “Glory? To be known? To be in the history books? I know what my goal is, but do you?” There’s a taunt in his voice, a dangerously cool taunt that could unleash a brand-new war. “Do you know what you’re fighting for, o wise one? You with all the answers, tell me, what are you fighting for?”

“I’m fighting for the unification of Fódlan as well, and you know that. I want a better place for our people to live.”

“If you’re fighting for the people, then why’s your life spent all alone? Hear me, Edelgard von Hresvelg, you’re—” his hands slam down on the table— “alone!”

The word echoes throughout the room. It rains down like a shower of arrows, sharp and deadly. Alone. Edelgard is alone. She’s alone at the top of her throne, and she knows this. She knows this, she’s always known this, but she’s never let it show. Or at least, she doesn’t let it show that it affects her until now.

There’s a shift in Edelgard’s stance. Her eyes grow wide for a fraction of a second, something that’s rarely ever seen in her. And they drop. Her gaze drops down onto the table, though not for very long. But it’s long enough. It’s long enough for anyone to have noticed the change in the emperor’s posture. She’s just a little bit smaller, just a little bit caught off guard, just a little bit more like a girl. She’s just a little bit more like the girl she had once talked about, ever so briefly, the girl who is deadly afraid of rats and who doesn’t like constrained spaces. It’s a tiny change in her attitude, almost invisible, but as noticeable as the ruins in which Fódlan finds itself.

Eyes meet from across the table, one glare far harder than the other. Emperor versus leader. Mentor versus student. Leicester versus Adrestria. Riegan versus Hresvelg. Claude versus Edelgard. It’s a war with no beginning; it’s a war with no end. It’s a broken pact that never should have happened in the first place.

“One day,” Edelgard’s voice is soft, softer than it’s ever been, “you’ll understand what I’ve been trying to do. One day, you’ll see why I’ve been so hard on you. One day, you’ll finally grasp what comes with being a good leader. But not today. After all,” a smile stretches across her lips, crinkling the corner’s of her eyes, “you’re just another man. Raised so far from the court, so far from war councils, all the way in Almyra, how are you to know what it’s like to rule a country? You’ll never know what I go through!”

Edelgard’s hands on the table don’t echo the way Claude’s did, but the violence is there. It’s there in her eyes. It’s there in her hair that’s slipped out of their neat buns. It’s there in her clenched jaw. Frustration radiates off of her body leaning over the conference table, the only thing keeping her from striking Claude with all her concealed violence. Politics and diplomacy vanish at that moment; her whole façade falls, leaving her baring her true self.  

“I had no childhood! I didn’t get to play with other children! I didn’t get to live as a big happy family! I had to flee my country, flee my family, flee everything I knew! I had to watch my siblings die or go mad from horrific experiments! I was the sole survivor! I was the only one who made it! And my country depended on me to guide it correctly after all of that!

“I was thought to put my emotions aside. I was taught that the ends justify the means. I was taught everything you reproach of me, von Riegan, and I don’t plan on changing the way I view the world. If you decide to go against me, I will not hesitate to take you down. But I promise you this: when I’m done with Fódlan, it will be united like you so want it. I just won’t bring it together with your sentimentality. I won’t let myself lose it because I put my emotions where rationality should have been.

“Now,” Edelgard straightens, taking her air of an emperor once more despite her dishevelled state, “get out. Get out before I kick you out myself!”

“You don’t have to tell me twice.”

Claude scoffs, finally turning away from the emperor. He looks a little less blinded by his frustrations, but he still holds his head high. Perhaps watching the stoic woman turn into something so emotional made him understand where she was coming from, but his pride won’t let him admit to such a thing. So he just turns away from her, not letting his eyes linger on her any longer. Instead, green finds green, a spark of hope glistening in Claude’s eyes.

“Well, Teach?” He extends his hand to the one who silently stood to the side, his smile looking soft on his lips. “You coming with?”

“Professor.” Edelgard’s voice is sharp with a warning from her corner of the room. “You’re not going to leave me, are you?”

» "Claude, I'm coming."

» "Edelgard, I will not leave."

[ftm-megamind]

gonna make an elaborate post about darkest dungeon au because Maura enabled me and im kinda losing my mind over it

obligatory tag because i believe you will enjoy this @baura-bear

so first of all, i think the Ancestor would definitely be pulitzer. he would totally spend all of his fortune on excavating some eldritch horrors and curse his entire village in the process, and his last heir (so the one who gets his letter asking for help) would be none other than katherine, and so she fills the "player" role (manages the town, sends out the expeditions, etc.) not only because she is related to pulitzer but because she seems like a good person for that, she's smart and calm and while the first few expeditions were probably chaos she quickly got a grasp on how to manage things (by listening to the recruits' reports and reading old man pulitzer's dairies from when his excavations were still in full force)

and the people she hires are obviously the newsboys who i imagine would be certain character classes (obviously some classes would appear more than once considering the sheer amount of newsboys). and i really don't know who *all* of them would be but off the top of my head: jack would be a highwayman (or a bounty hunter now that i think about it)--the premise stays the same, he mostly works for his own profit and isn't completely trusted by any of his peers, but is still respected for his skill; dave would be a musketeer, kind of a lone wolf, confident in his skills, maybe even arrogant; crutchy would be a jester, lifting everyone's spirits with his jokes and ballads, but also packing a punch and having a tragic side to him; blink would be a man-at-arms and i'm not saying this because he has an eyepatch. he would be highly skilled and have plenty experience but would also be very intimidating, maybe even feared; skittery would be the antiquarian, obviously skittish and ever so careful, always somehow dodging even the mightiest and sudden attacks; spot would be a leper or an abomination, feared but oh so strong and respected; racetrack would be a grave robber, doing dirty work but being good at it, universal on the battlefield, tricky, and with grave (ha) humor; specs would be a plague doctor, fascinated by all atrocities and cadavers he stumbles upon, academically smart and able to make even the strongest of foes fall; and if i come up with anything else i will surely add it here

and the expeditions are always hectic at first, because most of the recruits (if not all) have shady backstories and don't completely trust each other. sometimes it's better, sometimes it's worse--i think spot and crutchy and race would get along perfectly, both crutchy and race being fearless, so much so that spot wouldn't intimidate them, and they would make the perfect combo, crutchy playing his ballads and boosting them, race chipping away at backline enemies, and spot shredding through the frontlines. and also just imagine the potential of their quests together--spot, quiet and serious and maybe even sad (it ain't easy being a leper/an abomination that much is sure) and behind him, race and crutchy exchanging jokes, and eventually they make spot snort or chuckle too (and they take great pride in this!) other great teams would be, i think, skittery+specs+blink. blink, brave and fearsome, shielding both specs and skittery, while they help him tremendously from behind. and also skittery bickering with specs at all times (specs inspecting an old, probably cursed artifact or looking at a dead enemy and being like "oh that's great" and skittery behind him giving him a dirty look and commenting "that's disgusting. you're disgusting")

and let's be real, i wouldn't be myself if i didn't mention javid. they totally got off the wrong foot. when katherine assigned them to a quest together, they started whining and complaining and asking her if they really have to go with him? and of course they have to, because katherine doesn't have time for childish superstitions about one another. but jack and david are still at each others' throats. "oh, this guy's just great, i can't wait until we're all sleeping by the campfire and he just steals our things and ditches us, or better yet, chops our heads off!" david exclaims, waving his hands around and rolling his eyes as always. "well look at you, goody two shoes musketeer, i bet you can't even shoot straight with that silly weapon of yours!" jack answers, already fed up with david's demeanor. as they go on the quest (with some other 2 poor souls who have to survive their endless quarrels), they can't help but feel weirdly drawn to each other and protective. jack, with his skillful eye and shaprened instincts from the years of hardships, immediately spots a trap that david is about to step in. and, normally, he would just watch and laugh, but for whatever reason, he places a firm hand on david's chest instead and stops him in his tracks. "watch your step, fool," he says, playing it off as one-upping dave. and david just scoffs, not admitting his (almost) mis-step, but he feels his heart flutter, but he tells himself it's just the adrenaline of almost stepping on a trap and getting his foot penetrated by a rusty spike. then, david returns the favor--as he sees an enemy getting ready to shoot at jack from afar while he's focused on another foe, and david immediately shoots, it's precise and pin-point perfect and almost mechanical with how familiar he is with his trusty weapon. "never turn your back to those things," david warns sardonically, though he can't deny he was scared for a second there that jack would get badly injured or, god forbid, die. and jack, though he doesn't say anything, feels warmth from his very core, because someone--no, not just someone, dave--saved his life. and this happens over and over, each quest they go on, and they even spend time together at the village, drinking together or playing cards together and stealing longing glances, even if they wouldn't admit it. and one time, when they're on another expedition, and it's so long that they have to make a campsite for the night, david notices that jack has a deep wound. wordlessly, he scoots over and with whatever bandages he has leftover, and he tends to the injury, avoiding jack's tender gaze, because no one's ever done that before for him. and by the time david is done, having carefully cleaned and bandaged the wound, jack said a shy "thanks." and david, instead of a snarky remark or ignoring jack altogether, nodded and smiled and said "you have to be more careful." and it wasn't smart-assy as usual, it was warm and quiet and almost intimate. and that night they slept way closer to each other than before. and they felt way safer than before, too

[luxmaeastra]

"What are you doing?"

She wrapped her arms around his waist leaning up to kiss his shoulder.

Aleksander pouted and twisted dragging her properly into his arms.

"You should be in bed."

Anastasyia smiled slowly leaning up to nuzzle her nose with his.

"But you weren't there and you're making us food without letting me help you?"

She gave an exaggerated sigh curling into his side. Watching him work, he was so beautiful and wonderful. Their honeymoon had been perfect so far. The shops in Rask were as wondrous as she'd been told as a girl. The apartments his parents had bought for them were everything that she could want.

She bit her lip watching him, fingers playing with the ends of his hair. His arm tightened around her waist.

"You keep doing that and we won't have lunch.

She gasped in mock horror.

"You're being cruel!"

He grinned at her, leaning down to nip at her nose.

And you know exactly what your doing."

She grinned kissing him properly.

"I just will miss this. We won't have the time for all this when we go back... especially all the ways you spoil me now."

She wasn't under any illusions, they would both be busy when they got back. And more importantly, they'd probably be too tired to do much more than sleep at night.

It was a little sad, she adored their nights together. Beyond just the sex, but the sheer intimacy...there was something beautiful about being able to sit and talk about everything and nothing in the darkness.

Those moments where the memories which would fuel him for the rest of his days, the simple moments when they could spend the time together. The gentle conversations, the loving touch or the warm caress. It was more than the carnal pleasure of sex, it was more than the desire to breed. It was worshipping and respecting, he was ensuring that ever ounce of affection was poured upon her.

These moments would keep him going when they finally return, when he finds himself loaded with work and demands of a court. He knew what his father was doing, he saw the plan and he knew what he was working towards. It still did not make it easier, to know that once they were home things would change.

His wrapped his arm around her, pulling her closer to him as he returned that soul searing kiss. His eyes closed, losing himself in her scent. In her touch. He wanted to drown in her, he wanted her to surround him in all the ways he could think of.

“We will find time to make sure we don’t forget what we have,” he whispered as he pulled away. “I will find small ways to spoil you, so you know nothing changes. Just because we will be busier, doesn’t mean we forget each other.”

[leaderintitleonly]

It's not working... It's not a possession. It's not a curse. No, it's something else. Part of it is a relief; he's hardly brushed against the supernatural before, save for a few magic wielders and the errant goddess who dragged him into her work. The other part is sheer horror of the unknown. The true reason the forest is so terrifying is because there's no light. Every twig snap and animal call is unidentifiable as you stumble around aimlessly. That's just about where he is. Is it even useful to be wielding his herb knife? Or is it a toothpick in this place? Cards steady. Don't show your hand. Stay strong. He's in there... Are they the same? Two parts... like a mirror's been shattered perfectly in two parts... Don't flinch. Don't show your hand. He's... one in the same... I can't defend myself. Not like this. The knife immediately clattered to the ground. His skin ached. It could have been chalked up to a reflex, but he had managed to throw the knife as a means to try to communicate that he was disarming himself, even causing the blade to spin slightly as it came to a stop. Doc had force himself to keep listening to each word. They were clues. If he kept listening then maybe this was more of a puzzle than a fight. He said he had knowledge, didn't he? What good was it to know how to dismember a person if you couldn't put them back together again. Being a doctor meant you had to understand how to care for a soul. Broken and battered souls needed care, too. "Well, m'real shame- uh, pain in the ass fer myself, too!" The claws make contact and there's a sting of a deep scratch. A metallic scent reaches his nose immediately. He can always clean up the blood later. Perhaps there's damage... It'll heal, eventually. It'll be a long ordeal but it's all worth it. "B-better?" He was quiet for a moment and left his arm hanging at his side. "This ain't how ya...save somebody. Yerself 'specially." His gaze began to soften, but the tears didn't stop. Rather than grab for something else, he offers his hand this time. No weapons, just a hand. "P-please don't take my friend 'way from me." His voice was desperate and pleading. "If it's true, wha' yer brayin- uh, sayin' I mean... Please... Professor ain't a fool. Yer feelin' uh ruck- mucked- yer in a corner. Ain't no corner, see?" Heartless. Weak. Pathetic. Idiot. Ah, don't forget cursed. It's all in our name. I earned better. His hand shook. "...Please don't take 'im from me. Please. M'beggin' ya. Don't meet too many folks I trust. Been four hundred years o' livin' an' I find somebody I say I wanna be friends with. Pretty special, ain't it? Don't...go..." Larger tears rolled down his cheeks down. To lose again... He already spent so long arguing with Death and at the very least, he was lucky to win a few of those arguments. There was something to say about his pettiness. But this... He was losing control. "Let 'im talk, please... Know it's scary, but... best when y'work...together. Always work in groups."

Not leaving any time soon? As in... this little pebble will stand in his way? Oh, that's rich. He'd find it amusing if it weren't for the other words the dwarf dared spat at him. Was he threatening to kill him? Calling him slow? A pain? His grip only tightens as more sparks emitted from his hands, stinging and zapping every bit of the other's skin as the bolts come into contact.

He never liked being compared to that awful person. He's not Venomous. And yet... it hurts. Which is it? Is he a threat? Is he a friend? ...It must be a threat. He doesn't like this part of him. Who does? Venomous certainly didn't. The shadow may act like he'll be even better than a deity, but at the end of the day, he didn't like himself either. Unlovable. Monstrous. Yet weak and cowardly. Part of him begs for a dark room to hide in. To sulk, and feel miserable, and drown, drown, drown in more work. There's always glorbs to sell. ...But it hurts to know the front is the only worthwhile side of him. It hurts to be told what he already knew. What he's been complaining about this whole time. We're weak. We're nothing. You can't love something like me! And what can one do about hurt if to not lash it all back? He doesn't care anyway! The fear on Doc's face, the way his hands shake - he's scared of getting hurt. A small, shiny dot falls from behind the shadows on his face. His breathing shudders as he feels a tightness in his chest. "...You liar," he said, quiet at first, but shortly after, he shoved the dwarf away from him and would repeatedly swipe at Doc with clawed gloves, now raising his voice into a broken shout - "I'll take him if I want to! No one orders me around! I'm the one that's in control! I'm the better half! N-No one is about to look down upon me and lie to me in the same breath! You talk and go on and on a-and on about how great we are but then say I'm no better than him! You... You heartless... weak... pathetic... little idiot!!! Don't compare me to that fool!!! I won't stand for this bullshit!!! I won't-" ...It goes on. And on. And on. One line would be shouted, and he'd attack again - running off of pure blind rage and pain. Surely seeing the fear grow in Doc's eyes is the way to go. That's the cure. That'll make it all go away. He won't regret this. Venomous might. That's okay. He doesn't care. That's not his problem. H-He's not Venomous. He's not. Forget the fact he's feeling his pain right now, thinking his thoughts. Make it all hurt more. More. More. More!

[littlefreya]

Santa Baby

Summary: For over a decade, detective Walter Marshall kept a dirty little secret, thinking no one would ever find out about his past. Sadly for him, you are somewhat of a detective yourself.

Challenge prompt: the song Santa Baby.

Pairing: Walter Marshall x reader

Word count: 1.6k

Warnings: Some sexy themes but mostly fluffy floof fluff.

A/N: This is for @toomanystoriessolittletime​​ Christmas challenge, which I am sadly a day late with. Remind me to never sign up to challenges. I stumbled upon erotic book covers that looked a lot like Walter (this and this) so decided it’s a funny idea. I never read these books, so I am not mocking it or the artist who drew it. Many thanks to @wondersofdreaming​ for helping me out. Not beta’d, I own my mistakes.

Please feedback, comment, reblog if you enjoyed reading. 💖

Title: Santa Baby

It’s not that Detective Marshall was the Grinch or anything, it’s just that he couldn’t afford to be merry. With crime levels peaking during that time of the year, and sunlight being scarce, his body ran strictly on caffeine and stale doughnuts. 

The temptation to spend Christmas eve sprawled on the worn-out leather sofa in his office was quite strong tonight. But even big hulking bears had their weaknesses, and as exhausted as he was, he dreaded every morning he woke up without your warm body curled up beside him. 

With his energy level blinking red, he finally decided to call it a night and drive home. Heavy growling and thundering drums roared within his truck, the extreme Scandinavian black-metal he listened to served as a complete contrast to the soft snow that fell from the sky and quietly piled up on the sides of the road. Pausing at the street-light, he watched the little crystals striving to form on his windshield and melting just as quickly against the heat of the car. 

For a single moment, all the terrors of the night diminished by the little flame that was the reminiscent of you - his little firefly who led him through the darkness, tender as snow and wild as fire. Accelerating just a tad, he imagined you’d be asleep by the time he’d get there, and if not, Walter hoped to at least be in your good graces. 

Luckily, ther warm orange hues beaming through the windows assured him that you were still very much awake, and he couldn’t help but spare one of his rare smiles.

Muffled tunes of a familiar song played beyond the door, the bass vibrating through the polished wooden flooring and the walls. Slow and sensual like honey rolling off one’s finger, the jazzy beats filled the spacious house along with the sweetest scent of crushed peppercorn and red berries. Smiling wider, he held onto the doorframe and kicked off his heavy boots.

“Pet?” he called and followed into the living room, hearing you humming along with the lyrics.

“Santa baby, just slip a Sable under the tree for me.”

Oh, he was indeed in your good graces. 

Sitting on your knees with your ankles hunched below your ass, you wore a velvety Santa hat and a sheer, red nighty finished by fake white fur that outlined your breasts. Your hands held a shiny green present over your thighs, and you gave him one of those coy looks that made him want to fall before you and pledge himself as your servant.

Instead, he crooked an eyebrow and unzipped his thick winter coat, carelessly discarding it on the floor and making his way toward you.

“Have you been an awful good girl?” 

Sleeves rolled up; he crossed his muscular arms together while towering over you. His cobalt eyes drank in your sight, trying to decide what to do with you first. The scent of musky sweat mingled with dark cologne wafted over you within seconds, making your chest rise and sink in a primal instinct. 

“Oh, I’m definitely going down your chimney tonight,” he growled upon your reaction to his presence and sucked in his bottom lip with growing hunger.

“At least three times,” you dared him in return and then casually lowered your gaze to the box perched on your lap. 

The large man caught on the hint and carefully knelt before you. One of his hands reached to stroke his beard while his mind rummaged to figure out what surprise hid behind the shiny package. 

“Got something for me over there?” he wondered with a playful beam, “I thought we’re not doing presents until tomorrow morning.”

“Just a little teaser,” you answered. Your eyes shone brighter than the large decorated tree that stood at the corner of the living room. 

Being a detective, Walter could practically smell the mischief that drenched every teeny hair on your body. As usual, his naughty vixen was up to no good. It always made him laugh how bad you were in trying to surprise him, which worked in his favour. Walter hated surprises. 

Intrigued, he snatched the gift from your hands and shook it against his ear for shy second before beginning to unwrap it. His eyes briefly scrutinised yours, darkening, smokey with lust while he tore at the chrome paper and absentmindedly threw pieces of green wrapping all over the living room. 

You watched carefully, your cheeks rounding and filling, your teeth flashing with wickedness upon seeing the colour drain from his rugged face.

“Where…”

Walter paused and swallowed the lump in his throat. Fingers oily with sweat and knuckles turning white, dug into the object held in his hand.

“How did you find this?!”

The snort you’ve been trying to hold back for the last couple of minutes finally made its way out, followed by a fit of uncontrollable giggles that made you fall to your back with your hand held over your torso. 

Walter, on the other hand, was anything but amused. He always feared the day someone would dig up his dirtiest secret.

It was more than a decade ago when he was struggling to pay his tuition to the police academy that Walter found an easy and quick way to make money. As a British immigrant who barely had friends and blended with the crowd, he made the mistake of thinking no one will ever know about his short-lived modelling career for cheesy erotic novels. 

He should have known better. He might have been a professional police detective, but you had a skill for uncovering the truth.

“Where did you find this?” Walter repeated with a frown, clenching his jaw and waving the colorful book in the air.

Pausing your giggles merely for a second, you took a gander at the cover, focusing on the image of your dear husband’s open white shirt. There he was, the man you knew as a brooding, black-sweater wearing grump, lost in some green meadow with a half-naked chick. A deep dramatic gaze crisped his younger face, his nose inhaling the scent of her hair, and his hand laid flat upon her juicy rump. 

Oh the drama!

You tried to speak, but all that came out of your mouth was an uncontrollable peal of chuckles. The corny title of the book didn’t help either; his fiery love rod.

Walter sulked and suddenly shuffled to hover above you, one hand snapped at your wrist before the other discarded the book onto your sternum and joined in restraining your other arm. Led purely by instinct, your legs spread to straddle his wide waist and wrapped around his muscular ass.

Staring at your strong, intimidating husband, the laughter rolling from your lips slowly died down, yet the smile was still smeared between your cheeks, especially once you felt his groin pressing into yours.

“Woman!” the big bear growled at you, “I am not going to ask you more than once, where on earth did you bloody find this?”

“The second-hand bookstore,” you answered and glanced at the book lying upon your chest, “was looking for something raunchy to read when suddenly I noticed a familiar face.” You explained and then swallowed the dryness in your throat. 

“At first I thought I was hallucinating with all them Christmas carols eating into my brain, but then when I took a closer peek, I recognised my husband’s ‘fuck me’ stare.” 

Walter felt a burn rising in his throat and swerving to tingle at his bristly cheeks. If there ever was a moment when he regretted a life decision, that moment was now. He knew he’d never hear the end of it from you. You were dauntless and unyielding as the ocean, one of the reasons why he was utterly in love with you. 

Nostrils flaring, he tightened the grasp around your wrists and rolled his hips into yours, eliciting a small moan from your quivering lips. The thick bulge in his groin hardened at the calling of the hot, wet patch in your panties.

“Name your terms, woman.”

“You are going to read it to me,” you answered without even overthinking and gestured toward the book with your chin. “Every. night. before. bedtime. I want you to hold me in your big strong arms and read me a chapter from ‘his fiery love rod’, or else…”

“Or else?...” 

The fire from the mental suddenly illuminated your face, causing dark shadows to form over your irises and the hollows below your brows. “Your friends at the MPD are going to find out about this one,” you paused, “and the 12 others that you made.”

Taken back by your words, Walter gulped, his fingers became moist around your wrists as sheer horror seeped into his mind.

“You... you know about the others?”

You nodded at him and then snaked your legs around the back of his thighs to cage him in your grasp like a fickle dryad growing her roots around a helpless wanderer. With his attention faltering, you twisted your hips and rolled the two of you so you were on top. Fingers lacing into his, you pinned him down and leered over him with cascading triumph.

“12 books, all under our Christmas tree, detective, so you better be good to me tonight and satisfy all my needs.”

Adam apple bobbing up and down, Walter watched you with a mixture of awe and agitation. There was nothing he hated more than losing control, but damn if he didn’t adore his wicked queen, especially when you were in a joyous mood, which, as he found, tended to be contagious. The moments in which the grouchy detective felt at peace were rare to non-existent. It was only in the embrace of your thighs that he thought that for a minute, everything is going to be okay.

Noticing the muscles of his jaw somewhat relax, you reached for the Christmas hat and slipped it off your head, placing it atop of his curly mess instead. Your hands held firmly onto Walter’s shoulders, and with a careful twist, you flipped the two of you over once again and shoved him down your torso while blissfully chanting.

“Santa baby, so hurry down the chimney tonight, hurry down the chimney tonight, hurry toniiiiiiiiiiight.”

*No permission is given for reposting my work, copying it, ideas or parts it and claiming it as your own

Dividers by @firefly-graphics​

Disclaimer: I don’t own Night Hunter/Nomis or Walter Marshall