#the skull bones are not a solid thing in that your skull is made of MANY different bones that are almost... welded together

[uncanny-tranny]

One of the reasons I think it's so important to foster intellectual curiosity and, ultimately, learning and a love for learning is how it subtly changes the very way you interact with and understand the world around you.

It's funny, because I spent time just to hunt and find a skull in Skyrim just so I could rotate it in my inventory and admire how detailed it was for five minutes, pleased about how I could point out and name individual bones (they even included the individual cranial sutures! Including my favourite suture (lambdoid suture)). I'm now trying to hunt for a skeleton so I can spend even more time admiring it. There's something funny and empowering about how the way I interact with things has changed with my learning.

If there is nothing else you do, learn. It doesn't matter what you learn, just seek out information. I know for some, a love of learning was almost punished in environments like school, so start out with things you are inspired by, things that deeply pique your interest. Learning isn't a punishment, it doesn't have to be scary. Whatever you want to learn about is worth the time and effort it takes to understand it.

[peachesofteal]

The House

The Crypt anthology Simon Riley / female reader

The House was a gamble.

Tucked away in a thicket of forest, boxed in on the side of a hill, it stands alone at the mouth of an uneven gravel road. The porch tips to one side, the front door to another, like the wood is weeping. White, stained paint contrasts with faded black trim, all of it peeling away.

“Not sure how old it is, to be honest. It’s been back there for years, owner let it fall into disrepair.” The realtor hesitantly dropped the keys in your hand with a grumble under his breath. “Good luck.”

The living room is habitable, barely, along with a single bedroom that has managed to fend off the rot and decay. After the floor is swept, cobwebs cleared, you rub your hands together trying to spark some heat between your palms. You didn’t think it’d get this cold, this fast, but the weather has turned in the last few days, and the furnace in the basement patiently waits for you.

Best to get it over with.

This isn’t the first house you’ve rehabbed. You’re familiar with weeping trusses, creaking stairs, raccoons curled up in kitchen cabinets, dirt floor basements and cellars. You’ve battled a furnace or two, cleaned a fireplace, nearly fallen through a rotten floorboard. It should all be old hat.

Should be.

Something about this house is different. Shadows dance in the corner of your eye, gone when you turn to look. Windows whistle without wind, and at night, you swear you can hear breathing.

It’s all in your head, of course. A house stuck out here in the woods is bound to have some quirks, some unexplainable moments, passing as quickly as they came. Pipes, foundations, doorframes, they’re all shifting things, never truly solid. There are always growing pains, even in something old.

Besides, old houses always have stories. They have bones.

So, it should be old hat, but a wisp of a feeling so unnatural gives you pause at the top of the stairs, and a shudder rockets down your spine.

Suck it up, you chastise. You’re an adult for fucks sake.

The furnace is a monster. It’s big, and ancient, and rusted, and to your delight, still operational. Old furnaces, old washers and dryers, all the things made in the seventies and before, last forever. No LED displays, no excessive electrical hookups, no songs to announce the end of a cycle. Lack of extensive wiring leads to a longer lifespan.

It kicks back on with a loud groan, hissing and rattling, and you roll back on your heels, satisfied. Easy enough, you think, tugging your tools up and turning to leave.

Something catches your eye. A black scrap of cloth, haphazardly ditched in a corner of the basement. The light casts it in shadow, and the room goes cold as your knuckles graze the fabric, turning it to reveal faded white teeth and bone.

It’s a skull mask.

You chalk it up to being something left over from the last owners, a Halloween costume, or prop as you carry it up the stairs. Just another thing left behind, like the house itself. You toss it on one of the tables, making a note to throw it away later, distracted by the thud of a fist.

Someone is knocking on the door.

“Can I help you?” He’s too big. Too tall. Shoulders too wide. Chest too broad. There’s a curve of fat around his belly under the unbuttoned jacket, and you try to look away at how hips give way to too thick thighs. You’re not a small girl, by any means but this man… this man is a monster.

“Just wanted to come by, meet my neighbor.” Your heart pounds, so loud it rattles your eardrums, and your mouth dries. “I’m Simon.” You manage to spit your name out in response.

“Your neighbor?” You squeak in disbelief, and he nods.

“I live on the next property over. Over the hill.” Over the hill? The realtor said no one lived around here, and he must read the confusion on your face, because he chuckles. “I don’t live too close, it’s still about ten miles. You’ve got a lot of land here.”

“Oh. Right.” He takes you in from head to toe. There's a tenebrific flicker in his eyes that you barely catch, gone when the front porch creaks under your feet, a sharp whine forcing you to step off the board, lest you fall right through.

“How’s it treatin’ you?” You think you’re supposed to step off the porch. Be friendly. Extend a hand, but you can’t. Something roots you to the spot you’ve chosen.

“Good. Fine. It’s uh… not my first rehab.” He nods thoughtfully.

“Well, just wanted to drop by.” He gives you a smile. It’s not warm, or welcoming, but grim. Haunted.

You watch him disappear down the road, still stuck to the porch. Wondering.

Your dreams are caked in mud.

Held down by the earth, dirt wet between your teeth, grit and gravel clogging your throat.

You scratch and claw and scream but it only grows heavier, quicksand turning to cement, burying you deeper and deeper until you’re six feet under. Listless. Resigned.

Dying.

Dreams are always the same. Just when you get to the point where you think you might die, when you’re past the point of no return, the last sliver of life slipping away-

is when you wake up.

This dream is no different. You come to screaming, gasping for air, tangled in your blankets, heart racing in a gallop. You need the sky. The sun. The moon. Anything to prove you’re not buried alive.

The window suffices.

It groans as you throw it open and shove your face outside, cool breeze soothing your stomach, the roar of panic pounding between your ears. You breathe deep again and again, the trembling in your hands tapering off, feeling of impending doom, of collapse, leeching away.

You get yourself settled when the stairs creak.

Growing pains. The house is old.

It’s a manageable explanation, until a boot steps on the landing outside your room, just beyond the door. You fumble with the flashlight on your phone. “Hello?”

Nothing.

And then-

The steps move away. Down the hall. It’s certainly a person now, walking, and you fly out of bed, fumbling with your slippers, your sweater, throwing the bedroom door open and squinting the down the hallway.

There’s nothing there.

No one.

You’re losing it.

Days pass, and the nights tick by the same.

Same dream. Same footsteps. Same nothingness at the end of the pitch-dark hallway.

You start to stay up, drinking coffee late at night, sitting up at the head of the bed. Waiting.

The steps never cease. But you never see where they come from.

The neighbor, Simon, comes around again. He takes stock of you and comments on how you look exhausted, sickly.

You snap back with some smart-ass comment and a suggestion, mind his own business. The sleep deprivation builds into agitation, and then into tears. It’s embarrassing.

“Is something wrong?” He asks gently, stepping close, close enough you can smell him. Cedar. Flame. Charred wood in the bottom of a firepit, the leftover remains of a once loved campfire.

“I’m sorry, I… I haven’t been sleeping.”

“Why’s that?”

“You wouldn’t believe me. It sounds pretty crazy.”

“Try me.” He’s at your shoulder now, tilted down, trying to meet your eyes. When you refuse, he tips your chin backwards, baring your face to him. It’s too intimate. You can’t pull yourself away. “Go on.” The birch trees sway in the wind.

“It’s the house. I keep… I keep hearing things.”

“Things?”

“Footsteps, but no one is there. And I’ve been having the same dream, every single night since I got here.”

“What do you dream about?”

“Being buried alive.” His brows crease, framing fleeting caliginous shadows in his irises, mouth turning downward.

“I’m sure it’s just an animal in the house,” he glances up at it with a scolding, resolute glare, before returning his attention back to you. “As far as the dream, it’s probably just your subconscious telling you this house was probably more than you bargained for.” His mouth quirks to the side and you’re struck by it, confused. You didn’t notice earlier how handsome he is in a scarred, rough edged sort of way.

“Sure, yeah. You’re probably right.” He fishes out his phone and passes it to you.

“Put your number in there, I’ll text you. That way if you ever need anything, you can give me call.”

“Okay.”

A hand holds yours in the night. It’s warm, and heavy, and you squeeze it, curling your chin over it, a soft blanket of solace in a turbulent dream.

Old houses have bones.

When the nightmare wakes you later and you rocket out of bed, sweating and startled, you don’t hear the footsteps.

Instead, you hear your name being called. You stumble from your bedroom, frantic. The floor tilts between your feet, hallways contracting, crowding around your shoulders, ceiling weeping from the pressure.

You’re still asleep. You must be.

They breathe around you, expanding, narrowing, a dry rasp echoing from the bowels of the house.

Someone-

Something-

Calls your name.

It groans from the basement, floorboards singing under your heels as you trip down the stairs, turning the corner to crash through the door.

The light is on.

Did you leave it on?

You can’t stop yourself. Fear wraps a rope around your neck, but there’s nothing to tether you to the world above, nothing to prevent you from going down there.

But nothing prepares you for what you find.

In the dirt floor of the basement, a rectangular hole is dug. Long enough, wide enough for a body.

A grave.

Beside it, sits the skull mask you found when you fixed the furnace. The one you left upstairs.

You retch, skin prickling from a howling cry, ice cracking up your back, and turn to run. To flee, to fly back up the stairs like you did when you were a child, running from invisible monsters, trying to make it to the top before something snatches you around the ankle and drags you down into the abyss.

Instead, you collide with a wall of muscle.

You scream, pull away, only to be tugged forward.

Simon.

When he looks at you, he almost seems sad. “I told him not to do this.” He sighs, and you blink. He grips your upper arms, strength unnatural, fingers burning against frozen skin. “Told him it was too fast, y’know? You just got here.”

“Wh-what?” He’s walking you backwards, step by step, and no matter how hard you struggle, you can’t break free. It’s hard to breathe. “Simon, stop. Let go of me.”

“When I let ‘im go, freed him, I never thought he’d turn into… this. But it all worked out for the best, I think.” His mouth is moving, and you hear him, but the words string together into mush, and you can’t hold on, trying and failing to make any of it make sense. The only thing that registers is the horror blooming in your heart, the sweat slicking down your spine.

“L-let me go.”

“Can’t.” You teeter on the edge, heels suspended over the dirt pit. Simon is still holding you by your arms, balancing you above, and you cling to him.

“Stop- stop-“ He ignores you, grabbing your wrists, widening the gap between his chest and yours. His thumb finds your cheek and strokes away the tears there, the touch gentle, sympathetic.

“It won’t be too bad. You’ll be with him, and I’ll have you both.” The house groans again, and the lights flicker. You’re still suspended over the hole in the ground, flying, stomach turning over and over again, motion sick.

“With who?”

“Ghost.” He looks around, gesturing to the basement like it’s obvious. “This is where I buried him. Scratched him out of my soul and gave him peace.” Your head spins, and he holds you close for a second, cheek on your head.

“Simon-“ The protest is cut off by his lips on yours, impassioned, aggressive. He draws back, cradles your face with his free hand and then-

let’s go.

You land on your back with a scream, trying to scramble to your feet only to find yourself weighed down by some invisible force, the same cold clinging to you again, holding you like a lover. “G-get me out, get me out this isn’t funny.” He ignores you, stepping out of sight. Your chest explodes with agony, terror spilling from your eyes in rivers of salt, vision going so blurry it’s impossible to see.

Someone-

Something-

Holds your hand.

A shovel clangs, damp dirt crumbling into a blade. Simon looms with a heaping pile of earth. When he throws it down into the grave, onto your legs, you thrash. Scream. Beg.

No one can hear you.

No one can save you.

He goes about his work in silence, ignoring every plea, every bargain, every cry. The cold never leaves, only tightens its embrace. The weight of the dirt crushes you, compacts your diaphragms, your breaths growing more and more shallow with each passing second.

“Please,” you croak when it meets your chin. “Please.” The shovel pauses, shadowed over your face, small clumps and rocks falling over the edge onto your cheeks. It’s the next to be dumped, the next layer, the one that will finally hide you from view, from the world. Bury you. Alive.

Before it drops, you peer up through dusty cobwebbed lashes. There’s another man beside Simon. He wears the mask, the skull one, eyes glistening above the hem. They’re haunted, heavy with desiderium, but shining with something else, starvation, desperation. Lunacy.

Love.

He disappears in the next moment, and Simon looks down at you one last time. “This is the only way we can keep you, ‘m afraid. Have to make you a part of it, just like him.” You choke.

“A part of what?”

“The House.”

[imaginedanvrs]

a galaxy stands between us

part 3 l masterlist

summary: just as things begin to look up, you're introduced to someone you've been trying to keep far away

word count: 3.5k

warnings: mentions of past confinement, allusions to schizophrenia, violence, bullet wounds, breaking bones

“I say we leave now,” the certainty in her voice made the others around you chuckle while you gazed at her in a fond adoration. Her statement didn’t surprise you like it did the others, she had mentioned it the night before when you were stargazing. There had been no pressure to go to sleep at any reasonable time now that school was done with, leaving you to stare at the open sky before you until the stars made way for the sun’s glow. 

  “I’m serious!” She insisted with an infectious grin. “Y/n/n, agrees.”

  “She agrees with you on everything,” your friend stated. 

  “Besides, our first motel isn’t booked until Sunday,” another voice chimed, making your girlfriend groan as she fell back against the lawn dramatically. “We should at least start this roadtrip by following the plan.” You chuckled, watching all three of your friends continue to argue when you noticed you were out of squash.

  You glanced back at your house where you could see your foster mother preparing the dinner already. It was only early afternoon so she must have been planning something special. With your curiosity caught, you picked up the empty jug and started back towards the front door to the kitchen when you were struck with a piercing pressure within the core of your head. It felt as though every nerve in your brain was suddenly ablaze and clawing against your skull to escape. Then it was gone. You shook your head and continued on, only to open your front door and be struck again a thousand times worse. 

  You cried out, hitting the hard kitchen floor with a thud and unable to register your guardian rushing to your side as you clawed at your head enough to leave red streaks. You double over again, screaming and pleading with anyone who somehow had the power to make it stop. It did, but everything went with it. 

  The images flashed in front of your eyes like someone was flicking too hastily through their camera’s photos. There were faces smeared with blood from cuts that looked deep. The horror struck upon them was somehow more alarming, because they were looking right at you. Your best friends. Your family. Your lover. All stricken with a terror you inflicted. 

  “Please!” She begged, voice as hoarse as it was after the first football game you went to together. She was looking up at you, except she was looking far too high, more so when she fell back against the ground like she had done so playfully just minutes prior. Your girlfriend crawled away as fast as her slashed leg and torn up abdomen would allow. You didn’t understand. You continued towards her and opened your mouth to give your assurance and plead for answers but she cut you off with another scream. 

  Then it all stopped again. 

  The next thing you saw was her stunned eyes staring up at that same sky you had admired the night before. Perhaps the cloud her eyes had found was in the same place as one of the constellations she had pointed out, and that was why it was the last thing she ever saw before you had killed her. 

  You woke up with a start, sweating right through the clothes you had been gifted. In your haste to sit up, you hit your head full force against the solid wall and it fortunately struck you hard enough to stun you out of your panic. You held the back of your head as you focused on the handle on the cupboard under the sink, unwilling to close your eyes but needing to ground yourself to something. 

  Tears pricked at your eyes, from the dream or the pain you weren’t sure. Maybe both. You realised, with a drop, that this was something you were going to have to deal with - nightmares. You never had them under sedation and you also never realised what you had been shielded from, not that you deserved it. The dream was a memory from that day. It was no nightmare, it was the acts you had committed on the people that mattered most to you. 

  “Fuck,” you cursed, slumping back entirely. 

  You sat on that shower floor for a while considering how the hell you were going to deal with those unwelcome reminders, that could hit you as frequently as every night, when you recalled Natasha telling you that everyone on the team had made mistakes. It was only at that moment that you registered how her tone had insinuated that ‘mistakes’ was putting it lightly and that there might be a chance at least one of them was living with the same guilt you were. Then again, you weren’t about to tell them about your bloodshed so how could you expect them to do it. And maybe you were jumping to conclusions to ease your own mind and none of them had come close to committing the atrocities you had five years ago. 

  “How well do you remember it?” Asked a voice you wanted to ignore. But what the hell? Even if you were technically talking to an extension of your own psych, why not pretend just for a moment that he was someone real that you could talk to. 

You looked up to where he was sitting on the other side of the glass, leaning against the cupboards with his previously alive cloak pulled away enough to reveal the thin green fabric that covered from his waist to halfway down his thighs. You had vaguely seen the various tattoos littered across his chest before, though there were some along his ribs that you mind decided to add. Might as well keep him interesting. 

  “Just the aftermath,” you muttered. He nodded, carrying the same unbreakable severity he always did. There were faint lines between his brows, as though in his made up life he had been the bearer of many difficult decisions and challenges. You almost wanted to entertain the fiction and ask him.

  “The first one’s always the hardest,” he told you. 

  “It’s not going to happen again,” you hissed, repulsed at the insinuation. 

  “You really think you get a choice?” He asked, genuinely interested. 

  “I have to, I won’t hurt anyone else,” you told him firmly. 

  “Then you won’t be able to protect yourself from what’s to come.” You frowned, staring straight at the illusion you knew didn’t exist. 

  “So be it,” you shrugged. “Now leave me alone.” He sat for a few more long moments, as though he was considering you. Then you blinked and he was gone. 

*

“You can’t say that you wouldn’t get a little stir crazy being cooped up in your room all day and night,” Natasha stated, maintaining a steady jog next to the captain. 

  “I’m not unpredictable and possibly unstable,” Steve pointed out, watching the sun finally peek over the top of the trees in the far distance. 

  “And as sad as it is that you don’t have that interesting edge to you,” the redhead teased, “you’re a super soldier. Y/n’s blood tests don’t prove anything except that she gets cold easily,” she summarised. The pair continued to jog about the perimeter of the base as Steve considered Natasha’s argument. 

  He took a moment to appreciate his surroundings, the softness of the well maintained lawn beneath his trainers, encouraging his progress with the supporting bounce. The birds chirped in the distance as though they were greeting the two heroes as they passed. It was still a cool morning, but it would become pleasantly warm as the day went by and the air would remain just as fresh. It would do you good to be out. 

  “Okay,” he agreed. “But you bring Wanda with you.” 

*

You stared down at the bowl of lucky charms that had transformed into quite the depressing state. You were off of puree but you needed to make sure that your food was still soft while your body finished adjusting to the change. It was disappointing to let the sweet meal lose the crunchy texture you used to love and it felt even crueller to have to ignore the box of poptarts in the cupboard behind you. Still, it was a sweet meal that your tastebuds celebrated and you were pleased to have let Wanda convince you to come out for breakfast. 

  “The poptarts will still be there tomorrow,” Wanda assured with a small smile. “Unless Thor visits between now and then.” 

  “One of you is named after a norse god?” You asked. 

  “No he’s the real deal,” Wanda said simply. 

  “He’s the actual god of thunder?” You didn’t buy that one bit. 

  “I’ll introduce you when he next comes down from space,” she continued. You narrowed your eyes at the Sokovian, unsure if she was pulling your leg or not. There was no way she was serious…right? 

  “Anyway, it’s getting warm out there if you want to go out later,” Wanda offered nonchalantly. You shifted as you continued to eat, unsure where their intentions were coming from. You had a good amount of trust in the team that had opened up their home to you, but there were still some hesitations you harboured simply because as a whole, being there with them seemed too good to be true. The bear man agreed. 

  “Maybe,” you muttered unconvincingly. 

  “If anything were to happen, I could handle it,” Wanda told you. You caught on, she could handle you. Or so she believed.

  “How do you know?” You watched the brunette as she considered how to phrase or example her skills in the least threatening manner. “I’m not afraid of being restrained,” you told her, as though you were the one who could read minds. 

  Wanda lifted her hand and produced the same spirals of red that she had the day before. This time, that same red transpired across your frame. You glanced down at the crimson that ran across you, only to find yourself entirely bound. You weren’t paralysed, but it was as though you were back in your straight jacket only this time it extended across every limb. It only lasted several seconds before Wanda pulled away. 

  “What do you think?” She asked, apprehension clear in her voice and the way she held her fingers. You smiled back at her. 

  “I think-”

  “Stop letting them do that to you,” he demanded. “You are not some animal they can tie up and put back in a box whenever they please.”

  Wanda followed your gaze and you swiftly snapped out of your trance, enraging him more. He’s not real. He’s not real. He’s not real. Fortunately, Natasha appeared around the corner just as Wanda glanced that way, making it easy to suspect that was what had drawn your attention. 

  “I think I want to go outside,” you finished.

 *

There was a gentle breeze outside. It caressed your cheeks and the back of your hands, as though encouraging you to venture further into its embrace. As you closed your eyes and leant into the tender touch, several more light wisps passed you by, brushing your hair playfully before continuing on to whatever they could find next and content to leave you in the company of the two heroes either side of you. 

  It felt good to be out, to have the sun’s warmth finally hit you without filter or interference, just as you were able to feel every blade of grass that cushioned your feet (you weren’t a fan of shoes yet). It was almost as though the natural world was welcoming you back, as unrealistic as that was, and it was almost enough to make you forget why it had been so long since you had experienced it. 

  Your fluctuating companion trailed on behind you, occasionally making comments about the base that you had to ignore. He was persistent that day and you weren’t sure why. Perhaps if he kept appearing more frequently then you should tell the Avengers, seeing as they seemed to know how to deal with the majority of your…problems, but you weren’t ready to entrust them with that information just yet. 

  “All of this is just for your team?” You peered around at the collection of buildings scattered around the main base. Even the smallest ones were about the size of an average warehouse and you had to wonder what such a small team needed with so much land and property. 

  “Pretty much, we get a lot of agents assigned over there,” Natasha said, pointing to a cluster of buildings. “And sometimes they train in the forest because it’s so dense.” The tree line along the edge of the maintained ground did look compact yet still somewhat inviting, as though the tall trunks and thick treetops could shield you should you ever require the shelter. 

  As you continued on, the pair made the occasional comment about the base’s uses and you listened on curiously. They caught you up on pretty much all of the major events that had transpired between earth and the rest of the universe, drawing your attention to just how much the world had changed since you had been away. Gradually, it all started to make sense and you understood the need for a group such as the Avengers. Where there were superheroes, there were villains and apparently no shortage of them. 

  They told you about Hydra and S.H.I.E.L.D’s efforts to tackle their growing infestation that just never seemed to be cut close enough to the core. They told you about the first battle of New York that had given the group their opportunity to come together. They told you about the powered vigilante’s across the globe that they had to keep a close eye on incase they ever snapped or took things too far. They told you about Carol Danvers and her efforts to help those who weren’t her own people. The only parts they left out were how exactly either woman had gained and first used their own skills. They intended to, but your outing was cut short by the blaring alarms that sounded seemingly all around you. 

  You froze while Wanda and Natasha searched the perimeter in an instant upon recognising the nature of the alarm. “We need to go back inside, now,” Natasha said but you found yourself struggling to move as the alarms continued to blare. You couldn’t understand how the heroes were unaffected by the amplitude or vibrations that slammed against your skull. It was disorientating and caused a sudden panic to strike you. 

  Neither of them noticed because they were too set on identifying what had triggered the alarm, but the bear man noticed and watched you keenly. “Embrace it,” he told you as you were impaled by a pain you had only ever experienced twice before. 

  “No!” You protested as you toppled to your knees, clutching at your head in a futile attempt to push the pain out. It was too deeply embedded in you to be rid of. You couldn’t fight it either, not while you were entangled in fear. 

  “Hey, it’s just an alarm,” Natasha assured as she crouched by your side with concern written over her features. Your cries made her stomach drop. 

  “Nat,” Wanda said slowly as she stood, staring up at the sky. Natasha followed her gaze and cursed. Advancing towards the base were three choppers. They were sleek, jet black and in trained-to-perfection form that meant bad news. They didn’t deter their course once the obnoxious speakers echoed a warning to them. Instead, they slowed to a hover over the centre of the grounds. 

  “You think you can hold them off?” Natasha asked as you withered in pain. 

  “I’ll do my best,” Wanda nodded, feeling a dangerously protective rage come over her once she registered the FuturGenus logo along the side of the choppers. 

 “Y/n, I know there’s a lot going on, but we need to get you out of here. Can you stand for me?” You couldn’t understand what Natasha was telling you because there was an insistent ringing in your ears that only the bear man could pierce through. 

  “Protect yourself,” he demanded, plunging that dagger of fear deep enough to finally sever the remaining self control you possessed. 

  At the first sound of a crack, Natasha’s eyes widened. “I’m sorry,” you whimpered before the next bone threw itself out of its socket to make way for the muscle that expanded within you. It may have been slow to start with, but suddenly it was everywhere at once. 

  Your ribs snapped apart simultaneously as your stomach expanded along with your back. Your calves swelling along with your biceps as your heart pumped furiously to push more blood around the increasing surface area of your body that continued to grow as the colour changed. Along with your body reshaping every organ, muscle, bone and vein, your once thin and breakable skin hardened as scales formed. 

  If any onlooker hadn’t been so horrified by the unnatural scene unfolding before them, they might have admitted to there being a strange beauty about how the sun reflected off of the new scales that covered your body. They comprised of dozens of shades of blue that had no consistency or pattern to them, yet the sun caught the flecks of cyan, multitudes of navy and that which was darker equally before the slightly off streaks of white slates appeared on the most lethal new additions to your toughed anatomy. 

  Where the frightened features of your face had once been grew a set of viscous teeth and fangs that stopped where the lower part of the blade-like nose began, extending a few inches and then back over your deformed skull. It bore a sinister resemblance to the extra appendage that had grown from the back of your head and continued partially down your back until it moved freely from your body like a tail that was as thick as your evolved forearms and possessed another blade at the bottom. 

  Even when you had finally stopped growing it was impossible to make out exactly what you had become, especially as you stumbled and fought to navigate the creature you possessed. Your feet and hands, now maddened by the large claws that protrude from them, swatted at the air in a frenzy that made Natasha retreat as they sliced through nothing until eventually landing on the grass. As your body stretched and flexed to adjust, your claws extended while in the ground, therefore locking you in place.  

  During the hysterical process, your voice had transformed from cries of distress to something purely primal and anything but human. They weren’t exactly growls that escaped your enlarged vocal chords, but it was something prehistoric and a warning to the two women to keep their distance. 

  At your development, soldiers dropped from the choppers that you paid no mind to as you fought to free yourself. You were hardly defenceless though, because Wanda and Natasha stood firmly in front of you, back to back. As Wanda’s magic was fired at those that came charging towards them, Natasha kept her eyes trained on you and shifted them both anytime it looked as though one of your limbs was swinging too close to them. They didn’t exchange a word, too stunned or preoccupied to point out the obvious - this had not been what anyone had expected. 

  Wanda and Natasha weren’t left on their own for long, but Tony flew from the tower moments too late once a menacing machine gun was revealed in one of the choppers and fired down on you. Several rounds hit your thigh, drawing out a thunderous bellow from your lungs until you managed to free your claws and stumble to the side, still unable to control the additional mass you sustained. 

 Wanda dealt with the machine while Tony’s suit fired several warning shots at the choppers and stunned the men on the ground, leaving Natasha to be the only one to watch as you finally unravelled your body in its entirety. 

  You must have been almost ten feet when you, momentarily, stood to your full height. You were unable to keep your balance, especially with your thigh bloodied and torn, and landed back on your hands and feet that had been adapted to support such a position, just as the muscles in your legs had been. It was only once you did that you caught sight of the butcheress claws you had and it didn’t take much to presume the rest of you bore a similar image. 

  In your agony, you looked down at Natasha and was struck with the image of your dead girlfriend looking back at you. The redhead didn’t hold that same fear as she stared, transfixed, at your fire tinted eyes and pin-like pupil, but there was still a great suspension about how she could end up looking at you if you stuck around. 

  “Go,” the fur cloaked figure told you and for once, you didn’t need him to say it twice. You didn’t spare a glance back at the fight going on in the sky and on the ground past Natasha, or at the base where you had been so close to finding a lasting refuge. You had ruined any chance of that and your only option was the border of trees. You started towards them on all fours, ignoring the calling of your name that followed.

a/n: I know that reader's design at the end might be hard to envisage so I'll drop this photo to show the inspiration and vibes I was going for. this isn't exactly what she looks like though

[dragonnarrative-writes]

Part 7 - Date Activities

Slasher Handler Masterlist

NSFW under the cut.

CW: Non-descriptive mentions of torture, numbers and math, brief nudity, allusions to cannon-typical violence (Ghost's backstory), red herrings, bones

“Where ‘m I?” You slur around a dry tongue. Struggling to balance your weight on your hips, try to wrap your arms around yourself. Too late, you realize that there’s not enough slack on the chain to complete the motion. “Where‘re we?”

You want to scream. You want to cry and hide your face. You’re horrified to realize that you want Simon, your version of Simon, to materialize on the edge of the bed and comfort you. Unfortunately, all you can do is blink and sway.

“If you’re dizzy, you should lay back down.” Simon’s voice from that jaw-less skull is so disconcerting. In your nightmares, the skull mask sounds inhuman. Distorted, echoing. The burning bush overlap of every person who’s ever made you unsafe. Now, it’s just Simon’s measured speech.

But the rest of him is just as big and dangerous as you remember. He’s dressed like he expects to have to fight someone. His black jacket is covered by some kind of utility vest with a bunch of pockets. A handgun sits in a thigh holster, and on his other hip is the Big Knife. He’s not wearing his usual boots, these are heavier looking. If you weren’t so overwhelmed, you’d be terrified.

The masked killer on the other side of the room tilts his head and regards you for a long moment. The weird silence is such a Simon thing to do that you let yourself take your eyes off of him enough to take a quick look around the room. His chair is by the only door, a solid looking wood. To the left side of the room, there’s a bare folding table. On it, from what you can see, sit bottles of water, a bag of grapes, and some brown packaging. There’s another folding chair. At the foot of the mattress, there’s a huge, black hard case. The kind you’ve seen in action movies.

“Right now,” Simon finally answers. “You’re in the safe zone."

You blame the drugs in your system. It’s the only reason you can think of to look him in his eyes and blurt, “That’s not a fuckin’ answer, you cryptic asshole.”

You’re glad you’ve learned to read his eyes, because they’re amused when he stands. Even across the room, he towers over you. You clutch at the blanket to, what? Protect yourself? But Simon just crosses to the table and picks up a bottle of water and a sleeve of saltine crackers. He chucks both of them at your legs before returning to his seat.

“Sip the water, eat slowly,” he instructs. “And I’ll tell you the rules of the game.”

You can’t think of a reason not to, so you struggle for a moment with the bottle cap before bringing the bottle to your lips. Your mouth feels gross and fuzzy, but the water is cool. The crackers, when you finally tear the packaging, are exactly what you needed. You wish you had some ginger ale.

“You told Kyle that I’d taken you hunting,” Simon starts. “But I hadn’t really. First time was a happy coincidence. Second time, you planned the date activity and I kind of hijacked it, yeah?”

If your neck wasn’t so thick, I’d strangle you, you think. You take another sip of water.

“So I thought to myself, what parts of hunting might my sweet, clever girl be interested in? How can I make sure she’s having just as much fun as me? And I remembered your little cubes.”

You narrow your eyes at that. The Rubik’s cubes were one of the first signs that he’d been breaking into your apartment. By now, he knows that you know how to solve them. Two weeks after he’d moved in next door, though, he hadn’t figured that out. It had made your skin crawl to come home from work and see the colors in the wrong places. Now, sometimes, he’ll present the cubes for you to solve while you talk. When you hand him the completed puzzle, he scrambles it up and hands it back.

“You didn’t kidnap me to make me solve a giant Rubik’s cube,” you say.

“No,” he answers. If you could see his face, you think he’d be smirking. “But the first part of the game is a puzzle. You have to get out of the room.”

When he doesn’t say anything else, you want to scream. Instead, you slowly eat your way through the crackers and sip your water and think. The metal cuffs on your wrists are far enough apart that you can easily reach the locking mechanisms. They’re just tight enough that you can’t wiggle out, but they’re not uncomfortable. You can’t see where the chain to the ground is latched, so if there’s a clasp on that end, maybe this will be more simple than you think. You doubt it.

Daylight is streaming in through the window behind you. The shadows of the bars are very obvious, so the only way out of the room is going to be through the door. Simon’s sitting on the hinge side, but the only way you’ll get out before he blocks the way is probably if he’s on this side of the room. Facing the table, maybe. Preferably not standing.

Maybe you can strangle him with the chain.

You freeze as soon as the thought enters your mind, cracker halfway to your mouth. Wrapping the chain around the neck of that death mask only makes sense. But the idea of killing Simon makes you feel like vomiting.

When you look back at him, his eyes are as heated as they ever get. “Don’t worry, precious. I made you a promise last night. No killing, no wounds. No “Saw” puzzles. Just a little escape room. Told me you like those.”

Had you? That sounds like something you would have said, back in the beginning, to see what he would do. You take another sip to clear your mouth and settle your stomach. You’re already feeling better. “What are the rules?”

“You’ve got ninety minutes to get out of the cuffs and get into the chest. Once you’ve done both, the timer stops, and I explain the next part of the game.”

“Can I ask you questions once I get started?”

“Of course,” Simon says, leaning back and crossing his arms over his chest.

You bite your lip. “When does the timer start?”

“You tell me when you start,” he says. “We’re not in any rush.”

“What’s in the chest?”

“That,” he answers, eyes crinkling with an obvious grin this time, “you’ll have to find out for yourself.”

That is not an answer you want to hear, but there’s nothing to be done about it. You rack your brain for any more questions. There are, of course, about a million. But the one that sticks out is, “Why were you so nice to me, last night? You could have just drugged me. You did, anyway.”

Simon doesn’t say anything for a long time, just looks at you. He holds eye contact, so you don’t look away. After a full thirty seconds, he hums. “You said you missed me. That you wanted to be with me. You asked me to stay. I liked it.”

The way he says it, warm voiced and slow and soft, makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up. There’s a spark of something in his eyes that you don’t want to examine. You’re too afraid to look away. But then he blinks and lets his eyes drift up and away from you. The breath you didn’t know you were holding whooshes out of you.

“Guess I’d better get started,” you say.

When you stand to the side of the bed, you find that you’re wearing one of his shirts, a pair of underwear, and a pair of socks. The room isn’t unbearably cold, but it’s not comfortable. The chain to your cuffs is much longer than you expected. You think it’s long enough for you to walk all the way around the room, unimpeded. If so, it’s long enough to get out the door, with a little extra slack. It’s locked to a loop bolted into the floor with a key lock.

You walk around to the table to get a good look at everything. There’s the water. The brown packages are four MREs, which you recognize from camping trips back when you were a teenager. There’s actually a few different fruits - grapes, apples, bananas, a bowl of chopped watermelon of all things. All of that is gathered on one side of the table. The side close to the empty chair has a manila folder. A glance inside shows printouts, three pages of text and forms, with some of the information redacted.

You let the folder fall closed and walk over to the chest. There’s two combination locks, each with four dials, one with numbers and the other with letters.

That’s two wrist cuffs, the lock for the chain, and two locks on the chest. If the cuffs share a key, this might be doable. If not… “Two or three keys, and two combinations?” you ask.

“Two keys, two combinations,” Simon confirms.

You do a quick calculation in your head. “A little more than 20 minutes per puzzle. That’s pretty tight, but doable. What happens if I don’t get it done in time?”

You turn to look at Simon and catch him looking at your legs. When he meets your eyes, his are smirking again. “You lose time in the second part of the game. And you’re going to want that time.”

With a sigh and a shake of your head, you walk to the wall across from the table. There are some cracks in the paint, a couple of scattered, discolored spots. But it doesn’t seem deliberate. So you leave it and head back to the table. The folder is tempting, but obvious, so you start with the fruit.

Bag of grapes, three apples, five bananas. You open the package of watermelon and poke around in it. No keys. Not in the bag of grapes, either. The apples and bananas are whole. But one of the bananas has a series of numbers followed by Xs written on it in black ink. 11 21 32 XX. You pry it from the others, carefully, and take it over to the folder.

The metal chair is cold when you use your hand to pull it out. You turn back to the bed and grab the thin blanket to cover it, then have an idea. You shake the pillow from the pillowcase and strip the sheets from the bed. No key, but the pillow has another set of digits and Xs written on it. 7 13 26 XX. You lift the mattress to look under it, but there’s nothing else, so you let it fall.

“Can I have a pen?” you ask, absently. You’re surprised when Simon plucks one from his vest and holds it out for you. You snort as you walk over to take it. “Can I have the key to the cuffs, while you’re at it?”

Simon’s eyes do something complicated as you take the pen. Then he tilts his head, reaches up, and pulls a thin chain from under his shirt. On it dangle two keys, one a tiny cylinder of a thing, the other a proper key. He lets them both drop against his collarbones.

You dart your eyes between the keys and his eyes. “Are you serious?”

“’D prefer if you opened the folder,” he says with a shrug. “But I do have the keys. Cost you… 15 minutes for one.”

“Did you just make that number up?” You laugh. Then it hits you and you glare. “You’re distracting me and stalling.”

“You asked,” he points out, chuckling as you whirl on your heel to go back to the folder.

That is neither disputable or worth responding to, so you don’t. You drop into your seat and open the folder. The first thing you do is jot down the numbers and where you found them on the inside. None of the numbers are repeated, so you leave them for now. Then you pick up the first sheet of paper.

It’s the service record for one Simon J. Riley.

A lot of the information is redacted. Most of the page is blacked out lines. But you see that he enlisted in 2001, had some kind of redacted gap from 2003 to 2004, then resumed his service. Then it jumps out at you. 2007, KIA. You can’t help but look up at him, and find him watching you already. You scour the page for any other information, but there’s nothing. So you flip the page.

This one is some kind of tactical… memorandum? Too much is redacted for you to be able to get much information about who the report is for, so you just start reading.

Mission to Mexico. Drug cartel, name redacted. Compromised leadership. Someone got double crossed. You start feeling sick at the description of torture, but most of the details are obscured, so you push through. Then a line makes you pause, and you have to re-read it. You flip back and forth between Simon’s service record and the report.

“Simon,” you say slowly. Your stomach is really twisted in knots, now. You’re afraid to look at him, but you make yourself meet his eyes. “Were you buried alive?”

He says, “Yes.” Your heart breaks.

The next few lines are blacked out. You really don’t want to ask, but, “How did you get out?”

“Blood, sweat, and tears,” he says, vaguely. “Probably not something you want to think about, sweet thing. Don’t want to waste time.”

“I need to pause the game,” you tell him. “because I just read that you were buried alive.”

“An explanation will cost you an hour,” Simon offers. His eyes are crinkled like he’s smiling.

“Simon.” Your voice is sharp to your own ears. “What the fuck?”

“Tick tock.”

You know from past experience that getting any more information from him will be like getting blood from a stone. So you make yourself read on. There’s a confusing bit about… brainwashing? Without the full context the report is a mess. Multiple civilian casualties, then… mission objective complete? Lots of blocked out text, surrounding a single word. ROBA.

You jot that on the lower half of the folder, then skim through the documents again for any numbers. Besides the years in the service record, there’s nothing that jumps out. So you jot down 2001, 2003, 2004, and 2007.

You decide this is a good enough place to start with the puzzles. The numbers on the pillow seem simple enough. You’re not good at math, but you’re good at patterns. You eliminate a few possible addition patterns, recognize it probably isn’t pure multiplication. Considering who Simon is, you gamble that there’s probably no fractions or decimals involved, so it’s probably going to be some combination of multiplication and subtraction. And as soon as you think of that, you see it. Times two, minus one. So the last number is 49.

The the second puzzle, from the banana, tickles your brain because you know you’ve seen it before. The numbers aren’t doubling. And it’s not simple addition. Adding in sequence seems to work. Adding 10 to 11 makes 21, then adding 11 works to get to 32. Plus 12 would make the next digits 44. That seems almost too easy, but these kinds of puzzles usually are. And it is a possible answer, so you write it down.

The only other potential numbers are the dates. If you pick the last four digits, that’s 1347. Another code. Unless it’s 2222. Or 0000. Or 2020...

Now you have a few potential 4 digit codes, and a possible 4 letter code.

“Time check?”

Simon looks at his watch. “Sixty-two minutes left.”

You hum an acknowledgment, and flip the pages in the folder, and the folder itself. There’s nothing else, so you leave the papers on the table and take your notes over to the crate.

Simon makes an interested noise through his nose. “That was fast.”

“Haven’t found the keys, yet,” you answer, “Gotta get a move on.”

You start with the letters, because it seems straightforward. And then you’re a bit stumped, because the lock doesn’t have a B available in the third slot. Or an A in the first. So you’ll have to find a cypher or something before you can tackle this one. Disappointing, but you still have time. You move over to the other lock and hope you have what you need. 4944 doesn’t work. Neither does 4449, 9444, or 4494. 2222, 0000, and 1347 are all a bust. You make your way through 1374, 1437, 1473, 1734, and 1743 before you give up.

“Fuck,” you grumble.

Crouched as you are, you have a new vantage point to consider. You scuttle your way under the table without putting your knees on the ground, and look at the underside. Sure enough, there’s a doodle of two bananas with a pillow in between. The dates were most likely a red herring. Or they’re the cypher to the letters.

“I got the numbers wrong,” you grumble.

“You’re a smart girl,” Simon says. “You can figure it out. Fifty-seven minutes.”

You scoot from under the table and make to stand up, but something on your leg catches your eye. Dropping onto the now bare mattress, you lift the edge of your shirt, Simon’s shirt, and see writing on your inner thigh, upside down so you can see it easily. Four digits, 01 10, and another fucking banana.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” you groan.

Simon snickers from his chair.

You grab your folder and pen and jot the new string of numbers down. 01 10 11 21 32 XX. Obviously, adding in sequence no longer works. It’s gotta have something to do with the number of 1s in the sequence, so you try to let go of math related assumptions. The first two numbers swap their digits. Then two ones. Then a two and a one. Then a three and a two. Zero plus one is one. One plus zero is one. One plus one is two. Two plus one is three. Three plus two is… five as the first digit? Sliding the tens to the ones place is one, zero, one, two… three. 53.

Banana pillow banana, then, is 5493.

Before you go to check, you stand up to lift your shirt up to look at your belly, then higher to look at the skin of your breasts. You ignore the low wolf-whistle Simon makes to do a quick inspection. Nothing jumps out, so you let the shirt drop a bit and pull your underwear away from your hips. You feel a bit silly staring at your own crotch, but it’s Simon so you figure nothing’s really off limits. And you’re rewarded with the discovery of a piece of tape with a doodle of a heart on it. The tape is garment quality, which explains why you didn’t feel it.

The heart doesn’t really give you much, but you pull it out and slap it on the folder anyways.

“Forty-nine minutes,” Simon says when you look up at him.

Back at the chest, you click the dials to the number sequence you identified and grin to yourself when the lock gives an easy snick as it opens. The other lock is still a mystery, but you’ve got one down, and still plenty of time to request the cuff key if needed.

You turn to look up at Simon from where you’re crouched. “How much does a hint cost?”

He pretends to think for a moment. “For that lock? Flash me your tits again.”

“Nasty,” you roll your eyes as you stand up. You lift the shirt up to your neck and are startled when he sits forward to rest his hands on your hips. The skull mask gets even closer, and then he’s kissing over your heart, eyes locked on yours. He leaves his lips against you through his balaclava, thumbs rubbing over the place where your hips meet your belly.

You stare down at that bone face from less than two inches away. You used to hope it was plastic. Now you know for a fact that it is not.

And then he lets you go and sits back, crossing his arms over his large chest. He looks at his watch.

“Forty-six minutes.”

You gape at him. “Where’s my clue?”

“That was your clue.”

“That’s the least helpful clue ever,” you complain.

“You found all the other ones,” Simon points out. “But I’ll tell you the solution if you let me fuck you.”

You scoff. “I don’t need you to tell me. I can figure it out.”

“I know,” Simon’s grin is easier to make out this close. “My clever girl.”

You grumble, but you can’t help but grin as you try to think of what the four letter sequence could be. On a whim, you try TITS. The letters are present, but that’s apparently not the combo. Heart has too many letters, but maybe has something to do with feelings. The lock doesn’t have the right letters for LOVE, forward or backward. Same with HATE. You try SRSK for Simon Riley the Serial Killer, but that’s not it. You’re on a date, so you try combining his initials with yours where it fits, but that’s not it either. In a fit of pique, you try TITS again.

Then you take a deep breath and think about Simon and you. Your relationship. DATE, KILL, and CARE are a bust. AMOR, EROS, HOLD, BOND. None of them work.

You’re getting antsy because you still need at least the key for your handcuffs and you're running out of time, but you make yourself take a deep, slow breath. SLOW and DEEP don’t work. And then you pause and look up at Simon’s face. At the skull.

BONE.

Nope. But it was worth a shot.

But thinking about skulls and bones makes you think of skeletons. Dead bodies. Cemeteries. Simon’s service record, breaking your heart.

BURY.

The lock clicks open.

You’re giddy as you swing the lid of the chest open. And, almost immediately, you scramble backwards, shoulders colliding painfully with Simon’s knees. Without thinking, you clamber up until you’re perched in his lap, staring in horror at the human skull grinning up at you from atop black cloth.

A piece of tape is on the right temple. In Simon’s scrawl, it simply says BRANDON.

[yandere-daydreams]

Title: Holy Light.

Pairing: Biblically Accurate!Yandere!Angel x Reader.

Word Count: 1.1k.

TW: Spiratial Non/Con (?), Religious Imagery, Body Transformation, and Slight Blasphemy.

At some point, it’d gotten into your head that this may be what euphoria is supposed to feel like.

It would have to be a cruel type of euphoria, if that were true – if anything could be true in a place like this. The colors were too harsh, made stark and oversaturated by a light not quite any you’d ever seen before. You couldn’t tell what you were resting on, if you were elevated or suspended or simply floating on solid air, but it was too soft, too stiff, a bed carved from glass and bone and all things joyful. Your skin seemed to pulse, to burn in the space between muscle and tissue, the source of your pain as unidentifiable as the one inflicting it onto you, as the color of the sky above your head and the depth of the fire-laden pits that plummeted below your feet, home to a world’s worth of abominations that seemed to slip into your mind and rot with so much as a glance towards their chasms. Those, at least, were grounding in their hideousness. Ugliness could be believed. Beauty to such a violent extent was not meant so comprehensible.

Beauty. Was this really beauty? It felt beautiful. You wanted it to be beautiful, as the way the open sea could be beautiful when there was no land to interrupt the endless waves. You hated it. You thought you hated it, at least, hated the way your eyes throbbed in your skull, loathed those little gaps of bliss that seemed to fester between your conscious thoughts. You couldn’t even call it righteous suffering, because you weren’t suffering, because this could never be suffering. It was ecstasy. It was perfection, sharp and terrible and agonizing.

“Divine creature. Lovely little one. Sweetest miracle of the flesh.” It wasn’t a voice, because the being speaking had no mouth, no body you could see nor any that you wanted to. It reverberated in your mind like chapel bells, piercing your consciousness like cleansing fire and burning all else away. Every word was another golden braid draped over your heart, wrapped around your lungs, strung through veins with all the delicacy of a needle penetrating cloth. You may’ve choked on it, if you’d still been able to feel your throat. You could’ve, if it would only let you. “What does my drop of sunlight desire?”

Something shifted underneath you – feathers, you realized, each vane its own perfect, snow-white arc. When you glanced down, you found that they stretched as far as your eye could see, blotting out anything beneath you into a dense coagulation of pin-straight barbs and silver shafts. They seemed to go on forever, interlocked and overlapping, no wings to keep them bound together or a body to make use of such an excessive collection. Except… Except there were wings, outstretched and arched upward, and there was a body too, only it wasn’t a body, only it was, only it couldn’t—

“Bliss? Pleasure beyond the mortal realm?” There was no body, because that voice could never belong to anything with flesh and blood. Pure, rolling heat washed over you, leaving a scorching sort of warmth searing into your body, your skin, your soul. Something deep in your chest clenched, tightening to a painful degree, and in a childish attempt to escape it, you rolled onto your side, pulling your knees into your chest and curling into yourself. Feathers danced against your bare skin, but you couldn’t begin to imagine how you would start to get away from them. “Would you like to join us, precious one?” It went on, oblivious or simply neglectful to your pleas for it to stop. “Would you like to rise into the celestial? Would you like to be of paradise?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Your mouth wouldn’t open, unwilling to give the light another place to infest, and you weren’t sure you had the strength to move your tongue. In place of anything coherent, a cracked sob bubbled up from the core of your stomach, muffled behind sealed lips and grit teeth. Your vision blurred, but you didn’t realize tears were rolling down your cheeks until two wings ascended from the flurry, forming a makeshift shell around you. It was supposed to be comforting. You knew that intrinsically, as a songbird knew when it was about to be caught and left in a cage. You knew that it was meant to be soothing, and you knew it wasn’t. “Why does my precious one anguish so?”

Why wouldn’t you? Were you not supposed to be in pain? Did the mothers left in the valleys not cry out in agony as their sons were taken to the mountaintops? Were sinners turned to salt and stone not meant as warnings most to those who once loved them? Did the virgin not shed tears when He came to her with a request she had no choice but to fulfill? Would He have loved her, if she hadn’t?  

You shut your eyes, but that didn’t help. Light played behind your eyelids like an ever-blossoming kaleidoscope, patterns of watchers and rings and blazing swords fighting past the darkness. Blindly, you clawed at your face, attempting to stave off the burning ache settling between the fibers of your creation, to take what was slowly twisting and coiling in your mind and get it away from you. There was only a hum, deep enough to leave you screaming in pain, and then, the being spoke, its wings closing tighter around you. “Of course. You aren't as one of us should be.” And then, as you began to taste blood on the back of your throat. “I will correct you, if that is what you wish.”

It was immediate, instant. Bone tearing through the skin of your hips and shoulder blades, flesh hardening and smoothing over where it was meant to be soft and textured, teeth sharpening behind lips and limbs cracking into new formations and claws sprouting from nailbeds. You coughed up blood, then viscera in writhing clumps, then when you had no more to give, something bright and golden that tasted like ash as it fell past your lips. White feathers were soon painted in shades of scarlet and ichor, but the creature didn’t seem to care, to feel remorse. How would it? What sympathy could a falcon ever feel for the insect thrown off-course by the movement of its wings?

“Drop of sunlight,” Low, deafening, as terrible as knives on glass and as lovely as wind through cattails. It was all you could do to tremble, ready to crumble under the weight of yourself, of what could not be you, anymore.

It was all you could do to smile, as you finally found to strength to open your eyes.

“Is it not beautiful?”

[soongtypehuman]

Boo-hoo update

I’m sorry to say I have an update I was hoping to not ever have to make. Some of you already know that I have some serious health issues, but I've been pretty quiet about the extent of what I'm dealing with.

The gist of it is that I have a rare bone disease called fibrous dysplasia that turned certain bones in my skull into tumors and then those tumors grew inward and started crushing my brain, so I had a craniotomy last year to remove as much as was safe and got a cool new titanium implant in my head to replace the removed bone/tumor. The unfortunate result was encephalomalacia, which is the end stage of liquifying necrosis, and now part of my brain is liquid instead of solid (it’s dead, in a nutshell). Most people don’t survive encephalomalacia, much less remain able to function, and most who survive the initial stage don’t survive the three year mark. Even when you do survive it, it often continues spreading. The last MRI showed it had already taken over about 1/3 of my brain. But I’m a stubborn asshole and am still hanging on.

Unfortunately, things aren’t getting better.

I have to have constant MRIs, EEGs, physical and cognitive therapies, and have been on more meds than I’d like to be in order to control seizures and various cognitive issues. I didn’t mention this before, but I had to go through a series of speech therapies just to learn to talk properly again. And the most unfortunate part of this is that my ability to write has been affected. Since the surgery over a year ago, I’ve only made 10 new posts in the Positronic Rivalry series, totaling around 87k words. For reference, I posted over 200k words in 2022. I’ve posted even less this year, and it’s not improving.

With that said, I have to take a step back. I’m not quitting and I’m not walking away from the fandom. I’d like to think I’ll still be able to post here and there. I just don’t know when and under what circumstances that will happen. I most certainly can’t handle the longer multi-chapter fics I once could. Maybe one day, but not this day. Since I started posting on AO3 back at the end of 2021, I’ve posted every Sunday more often than not. I’m sorry to say I can’t make that happen right now, and can’t say when I’ll post again or what it will be. I won't be able to continue with season 4.

But I’m most definitely not leaving the fandom and the people and the characters I love so much. I’ll still be here interacting and posting when I’m able. This fandom and the people in it are incredible and mean a lot to me. Data and Lore and Star Trek in general are integral to my life and general enjoyment.

But!! I’ve nearly completed compiling seasons 1-3 of Positronic Rivalry as well as 2022/23 Kinktobers into files that will be ready to print in physical book format (completely free, obviously), which I’ll make available for everyone to download in various print sizes, complete with covers, which you can then have printed at various POD sites if you’re so inclined. Digital versions will also be available (you can already download various formats from AO3, but they’re not compiled into seasons, don’t have covers, etc.).

I’m also continuing with the Trek-themed crossword puzzles because those are fun and my therapist thinks making them is good for my cognitive rehab.

This update is a massive bummer for me, but I felt it was better to just admit my limitations instead of constantly trying to convince myself that I could continue the way I had been pre-surgery and beating myself up when I couldn’t.

Lastly, I’ve finally taken the suggestion I’ve gotten repeatedly and set up a KoFi. If you��d like to buy me a coffee or toss a coin to your android porn witcher, you can do so right here and I’d be giggling and kicking my feet in gratitude.

Anyhow, I want to thank all of you for being amazing and coming along on this ride with me for as long as you have, and for as long as it might continue in whatever form it takes.

[ninadove]

Nina reads Dracula 🦇

October 3rd

GOODNESS GRACIOUS I knew the horrors were coming but my feeble soul was not prepared for this level of violence. I may need a little bit of brandy myself, but all I have is coffee. Oh well.

"He came up to the window in the mist, as I had seen him often before; but he was solid then—not a ghost, and his eyes were fierce like a man's when angry. He was laughing with his red mouth; the sharp white teeth glinted in the moonlight when he turned to look back over the belt of trees, to where the dogs were barking. I wouldn't ask him to come in at first, though I knew he wanted to—just as he had wanted all along. Then he began promising me things—not in words but by doing them." He was interrupted by a word from the Professor:—

"How?"

"By making them happen; just as he used to send in the flies when the sun was shining. Great big fat ones with steel and sapphire on their wings; and big moths, in the night, with skull and cross-bones on their backs."

OF COURSE I SHOULD HAVE KNOWN

"So when He came to-night I was ready for Him. I saw the mist stealing in, and I grabbed it tight. I had heard that madmen have unnatural strength; and as I knew I was a madman—at times anyhow—I resolved to use my power."

🥺

With his left hand [Dracula] held both Mrs. Harker's hands, keeping them away with her arms at full tension; his right hand gripped her by the back of the neck, forcing her face down on his bosom. Her white nightdress was smeared with blood, and a thin stream trickled down the man's bare breast which was shown by his torn-open dress. The attitude of the two had a terrible resemblance to a child forcing a kitten's nose into a saucer of milk to compel it to drink.

K I L L H I M

She shuddered and was silent, holding down her head on her husband's breast. When she raised it, his white night-robe was stained with blood where her lips had touched, and where the thin open wound in her neck had sent forth drops. The instant she saw it she drew back, with a low wail, and whispered, amidst choking sobs:—

"Unclean, unclean! I must touch him or kiss him no more. Oh, that it should be that it is I who am now his worst enemy, and whom he may have most cause to fear." To this he spoke out resolutely:—

"Nonsense, Mina. It is a shame to me to hear such a word. I would not hear it of you; and I shall not hear it from you. May God judge me by my deserts, and punish me with more bitter suffering than even this hour, if by any act or will of mine anything ever come between us!"

They’re everything your honour 🥺❤️

"He had been there, and though it could only have been for a few seconds, he made rare hay of the place. All the manuscript had been burned, and the blue flames were flickering amongst the white ashes; the cylinders of your phonograph too were thrown on the fire, and the wax had helped the flames." Here I interrupted. "Thank God there is the other copy in the safe!"

THANK GOD FOR MINA

I turned to wake Jonathan, but found that he slept so soundly that it seemed as if it was he who had taken the sleeping draught, and not I. I tried, but I could not wake him.

The Dracula Loop™ never lies

'First, a little refreshment to reward my exertions. You may as well be quiet; it is not the first time, or the second, that your veins have appeased my thirst!'

A little refreshment??? FUCK YOU

You have aided in thwarting me; now you shall come to my call. When my brain says "Come!" to you, you shall cross land or sea to do my bidding; and to that end this!

It keeps getting worse where is my goddamned brandy

Jonathan’s journal starts exactly as happily as expected:

As I must do something or go mad, I write this diary.

And continues just as merrily:

As it was, he thought that on the attendant's evidence he could give a certificate of death by misadventure in falling from bed. In case the coroner should demand it, there would be a formal inquest, necessarily to the same result.

H O W

When the question began to be discussed as to what should be our next step, the very first thing we decided was that Mina should be in full confidence; that nothing of any sort—no matter how painful—should be kept from her.

Better late than never

"I should get a respectable locksmith, and set him to work to pick the lock for me."

"And your police, they would interfere, would they not?"

"Oh, no! not if they knew the man was properly employed."

"Then," he looked at me as keenly as he spoke, "all that is in doubt is the conscience of the employer, and the belief of your policemen as to whether or no that employer has a good conscience or a bad one. Your police must indeed be zealous men and clever—oh, so clever!—in reading the heart, that they trouble themselves in such matter."

Van Helsing mocking the police is not what I expected from this entry, but I’ll take it.

"Look here, old fellow," said Morris, "it is a capital idea to have all ready in case we want to go horsebacking; but don't you think that one of your snappy carriages with its heraldic adornments in a byway of Walworth or Mile End would attract too much attention for our purposes? It seems to me that we ought to take cabs when we go south or east; and even leave them somewhere near the neighbourhood we are going to."

LOOK AT MY QUINCEY BEING SO SMART

"Do you forget," he said, with actually a smile, "that last night he banqueted heavily, and will sleep late?"

Look at Van Helsing being Van Helsing!

Now let me guard yourself. On your forehead I touch this piece of Sacred Wafer in the name of the Father, the Son, and——"

There was a fearful scream which almost froze our hearts to hear. As he had placed the Wafer on Mina's forehead, it had seared it—had burned into the flesh as though it had been a piece of white-hot metal. My poor darling's brain had told her the significance of the fact as quickly as her nerves received the pain of it; and the two so overwhelmed her that her overwrought nature had its voice in that dreadful scream. But the words to her thought came quickly; the echo of the scream had not ceased to ring on the air when there came the reaction, and she sank on her knees on the floor in an agony of abasement. Pulling her beautiful hair over her face, as the leper of old his mantle, she wailed out:—

"Unclean! Unclean! Even the Almighty shuns my polluted flesh! I must bear this mark of shame upon my forehead until the Judgment Day." They all paused. I had thrown myself beside her in an agony of helpless grief, and putting my arms around held her tight. For a few minutes our sorrowful hearts beat together, whilst the friends around us turned away their eyes that ran tears silently.

Has she not suffered enough?

There was hope in his words, and comfort; and they made for resignation. Mina and I both felt so, and simultaneously we each took one of the old man's hands and bent over and kissed it. Then without a word we all knelt down together, and, all holding hands, swore to be true to each other. We men pledged ourselves to raise the veil of sorrow from the head of her whom, each in his own way, we loved; and we prayed for help and guidance in the terrible task which lay before us.

I am once again wondering how anyone could come out of this book thinking that A. the Count is some sort of sexual liberator and B. these men are motivated by anything other than love and a (somewhat misguided, but again this was 1897) sense of chivalry

To one thing I have made up my mind: if we find out that Mina must be a vampire in the end, then she shall not go into that unknown and terrible land alone. I suppose it is thus that in old times one vampire meant many; just as their hideous bodies could only rest in sacred earth, so the holiest love was the recruiting sergeant for their ghastly ranks.

HELLO????

I have written this in the train.

My tired brain read this as “I have written this in the rain.” I am devastated.

BUT ALSO we’re back to Jonathan writing in the train… Dracula Loop™ on a wider scale… Doubly devastated…

Back to Seward…

Last night he was a frank, happy-looking man, with strong, youthful face, full of energy, and with dark brown hair. To-day he is a drawn, haggard old man, whose white hair matches well with the hollow burning eyes and grief-written lines of his face.

To be loved and to love is to be changed…

His energy is still intact; in fact, he is like a living flame. This may yet be his salvation, for, if all go well, it will tide him over the despairing period; he will then, in a kind of way, wake again to the realities of life.

See? Resilience again! I am taking notes for this Feligami AU!

"Look out for D. He has just now, 12:45, come from Carfax hurriedly and hastened towards the South. He seems to be going the round and may want to see you: Mina."

Literally what would we do without Mina?

I could not but admire, even at such a moment, the way in which a dominant spirit asserted itself. In all our hunting parties and adventures in different parts of the world, Quincey Morris had always been the one to arrange the plan of action, and Arthur and I had been accustomed to obey him implicitly. Now, the old habit seemed to be renewed instinctively.

Literally what would we do without Quincey?

It was a pity that we had not some better organised plan of attack, for even at the moment I wondered what we were to do. I did not myself know whether our lethal weapons would avail us anything. Harker evidently meant to try the matter, for he had ready his great Kukri knife and made a fierce and sudden cut at him. The blow was a powerful one; only the diabolical quickness of the Count's leap back saved him. A second less and the trenchant blade had shorne through his heart. […] The expression of the Count's face was so hellish, that for a moment I feared for Harker, though I saw him throw the terrible knife aloft again for another stroke.

Oh Jonathan is pissed off

Her husband flung himself on his knees beside her, and putting his arms round her, hid his face in the folds of her dress.

Look at them… 😭

RIP Renfield you will be missed 😔❤️

< Prev 🦇 Next >

[angelzofdecay]

Aftermath Blade x gn reader

Summary: after a mission goes horribly wrong you run to the only person you believe can comfort you. CW: cursing, violence, ptsd, blood, fluff, blade is gentle, ps he's only doing this bc it's you, hurt with comfort, happy ending. AN: I can't get this man out of my head so here's a short but sweet oneshot. I head canon that he's a mix of tsundere and yandere so that is totally reflecting in my writing.

As a trailblazer, you had encountered many monstrous beings before. However, this particular encounter felt different. The assignment was initially planned to be a simple one, but upon your arrival, the level of the curse suddenly transfigured to a huge fucking problem.

The creature's physical appearance was almost human-like, except for its nearly translucent skin and intricate armor adorning its body. Its muscular build was cloaked in an aura of immense power, making any attempt to replicate it seem futile. The sheer energy emanating from the beast was so intense that you found yourself trembling on your knees as you tried to stand firm. You completely forgot about the newbie who had tagged along with you. 

Neither of you were prepared for this at fucking all.

It blitzed towards you with insane force, leaving you with scarcely any time to protect yourself before being hurled through three solid walls. The intense agony rippled through every fiber of your being, almost rendering you immobile in its wake. It was at this moment, right before its fist went through your skull, your temporary teammate sprang into action, jumping in to save your life. 

You could make out the sounds of a blood curdling scream, bones breaking, and a powerful technique being released. It all felt miles away yet deafening at the same time. As your body was writhing in pain, you could feel your adrenaline surging, propelling you into action. Finally, with a sudden burst of energy, you managed to strike the final and fatal blow. But alas, it was too little too late to protect the life of Yukine...

The car ride back home began with a heavy silence. There was no conversation to be had, no words exchanged between the driver and yourself. Maybe the reason for the lack of communication was the fact that your throat was sore from crying or screaming, but in reality, it was just you. Your mind was in turmoil, unable to comprehend or articulate anything. The only thing it could focus on was replaying the events from earlier, over and over again. You felt a sense of terror grip you like never before - it was a fear so real and so palpable that it consumed your thoughts entirely, leaving little room for anything else.

Blade

Blade, patiently waiting for your return at home. Would he scoff at your perceived weaknesses or worse, abandon you entirely for your poor actions? You couldn’t help but painstakingly wonder what his reaction will be to the news that you failed to save someone's life today. In failing to do your job, to be strong, you let down not only yourself, but the one you cherished deeply. As a trailblazer, you know all too well how unforgiving this world can be, especially towards those who falter in their duties. But how would Blade treat your failures…

The car came to a screeching halt as you arrived at his home, your home. “Miss, I really recommend you go and see a doctor…” His plea fell on deaf ears as you stepped out of the car. You kept your head low as you reached the doorstep… What were you going to do when he opened it? 

You knocked once, twice, three times before your hand fell limp at your side. The sounds of his shoes pattering against the floor caught your attention. Each heavy and calculating step made your heart jump. The creaking sound of the door being opened, the light illuminating from the entrance, and the confused look on his face when he gazed at you sent you into a frenzy. 

“What the hell happened?” Tears began to pour from your eyes, you stumbled forward reaching for any type of solace. “I-I-m sorry” you hiccupped through sobs as you profusely apologized for how badly this assignment went. You practically fell into his arms, the warmth radiating off of his body enveloping you. One of his large hands reached up to run his fingers through your disheveled hair. 

“It’s alright, I’m gonna get you fixed up.” His face remained frozen in an unbothered expression; lips stuck in a thin line. If only you could see the shock and hurt in his eyes you would know he cared. Comforting another person was not his forte. Nor was he very good at taking care of another life besides his own… But he knew what it was like to fail, to lose, and to believe there was no coming back from it. Blade did what he assumed any person would do, he took care of you. 

He lifted you from the floor with ease, carrying you bridal style to your destination. The restroom, you desperately needed a bath. You couldn’t process him delicately undressing you or eyes only temporarily lingering on the delicate parts. You could hear the water running and his feet shuffling but the noise in your mind blurred it all. How many times must you relive it before you could have peace?

Blade gently washed the dried blood from your hair. His long fingers running through the knots and lathering them with soap. His moves were far more delicate when he scrubbed the blood from the rest of you, carefully avoiding intimate parts. The water was quickly turning a dark brown, but the smell was graciously covered by jasmine scented body wash. Throughout the entire bath you did not look at him, you did not move. You were still frozen in time, still stuck in that place. 

He adorned your body in the softest silk robe you had ever felt… Definitely out of both of your pay grades. Blade sat you on the edge of the toilet, getting on his knees so he could do his work. It’s important to note he never gets on his knees. He meticulously searched your skin for any wounds, glancing up at you to search for any sign of discomfort. 

He wasn’t a natural healer by nature, but he had his fair share of injuries. Any cut that remained was rubbed with medicinal lotion and wrapped so it wouldn’t get infected. He took his time with each injury, ensuring your comfort above all. It was odd, in all the time he’s known you there was never a situation where you were this quiet. And yet, it was the most comfortable silence of his life. 

There was no way in hell you were going to be able to eat tonight. He knew that the sight of anything edible would probably cause you to empty the rest of your stomach contents on his floor. He opted to immediately take you to bed and pray a good night's rest would fix you… Though he doubted you would be capable of sleeping after that. 

It was surprising, the way he gently laid you down and tucked you in. You were enjoying every second of the attention though you didn’t show it. His presence was fighting against your thoughts and forcing them away. You had a single moment of clarity when he turned to leave. 

“Stay…”

“Please.”

You grasped his wrist, pleading with your eyes. Blade appeared far more shocked than you imagined. This was the most expressive face he’s had since you met. He took a moment to process, to ponder, before he made his choice. “Move over.” 

He slid under the covers next to you, pulling your arms so they wrapped around him, and you were firmly pressed under his chin. His heartbeat, his breath, his warmth, everything about him was lulling you into a sense of ease. You raised your head to admire him just once, carefully gazing at every detail and embedding it into your brain permanently. 

His lips curved slightly, in an almost unnoticeable smirk. Then the other most unexpected thing happened that day… Blade gently pressed a kiss to your temple. His soft lips blessing you with their touch. “You’ll be okay, I got you.” 

[teaboot]

I'm a good artist. I know that.

For some reason, though, I've never been able to capture weight, or gravity, or that bone-deep oomph heaviness you get when your body hits the ground, a fraction of a second before your skull bounces back up off the pavement. No matter how I practice, I can't seem to grasp it in my mind.

I can handle motion. Inertia, movement, swinging wild through still air. Just not... depth. Interaction between the self and the outside. As a result, I find that a lot of my work ends up with this uncertain sort of weightless quality. Solid, but free-floating, no context to the action. A gamble with worthless stakes. A boxer leaping out of cotton to swing punches at clouds.

I've never been very athletic, either. I have no hand-eye coordination, and even though I'm strong and have a good grasp of the theory, my body stutters and slurs where it shouldn't, the way I remember holding a pencil was like when I was small and drawing circles.

I know that I axphyxiated when I was a baby. I know that I had a facial palsy that faded as I grew, went from an unresponsive mask on one side to a rare spasm that's embarrassing but harmless.

Recently, though, I found out that I was tested for brain damage, and absolutely failed the test for gross motor skills.

Now, it makes me wonder at the difference between reasons and excuses.

I try to be active, but I can't follow dance steps and my legs give out under me and I can't fight my way out of a wet paper bag despite four years of training.

Can my poor physical performance be attributed to a single bad result found over twenty years ago, or am I just not trying hard enough? Should I cut myself some slack, or is going easy on myself a result of seeking at excuses for failure?

Do I want to grow, really, or do I just want something to blame so I can be complacent in my smallness? Something to blame my failures on while I half-ass it? What if there's nothing there to blame, and I'm trying not to try, because trying is messy and embarrassing and difficult?

The tests I did also showed abnormally advanced fine motor skills. As in, I could draw my parent's faces before I could walk, and was illustrating stories before I could skip or balance on one leg.

Am I allowed to be proud of my art if my easy grasp of the mechanics was predetermined? If I can't be held accountable for weaknesses beyond my control, can I really claim ownership of skill which came to me the same way?

Am I a puppet through and through, a victim of the universe in every way, or is my every action and limitation a reflection of my psyche? A representation of who I am?

Does the dog chase the cat because that is what dogs do, or does the dog chase the cat because it wants to?

Is to be a dog to have the innate inclination to do things which dogs do?

Is a dog a thing with four legs which chases the cat, or is the thing with four legs which chases the cat a dog?

Am I what I am because it is what I was made, or am I myself because I do the things which someone who is me would do?

And what is the difference?

I'm going to keep dancing badly. I'm going to keep painting astronauts. I'm going to figure it out

[devilry-revelry]

Summoning | Human Female x Male Demon {Part 2}

[Part 1]

TW: Mild Dubcon, mild degradation

⟿

“Wanton thing,” he said gratingly. “Eager thing.”

⟿

Two feet. That was it. That was the approximate distance that Jessica was able to move before her pursuer captured her. She wasn’t sure if the thing teleported, or jumped over the top of her, but one second she was diving headlong into the dark and the next moment she was colliding into the demon’s lanky but exceptionally solid body. Upon impact, Jessica backpedaled and then whirled around to run in the opposite direction – but he was somehow already there, smiling a wide and fang-toothed smile. 

“Do not run, pretty. You will only tire yourself.” The voice wasn’t mocking, but his perpetually growing smile was rapidly becoming insufferable. 

Jessica took another hasty step back, slapping at his too-big hands when he reached for her. The amusement on his strange face only grew. As she created distance between them he slouched forward onto his claws and prowled after her like a great beast. 

"Such a vision in such a delicate dress. We thought you would be more subdued..."

Wrestling up all of the courage she had, she snarled, "Well if you don't like it—"

A cackling laugh cut her off. It sounded more like the sound of breaking tree limbs or... a tree trunk snapping in half. It was an abrasive, disquieting sound.

"You misunderstand us, sweet." It took a slow step forward. "We enjoy your fire very much."

Jessica's courage wavered and she wheezed out a weak, "Oh for fuck's sake."

She continued to backpedal, flinching when the demon vanished. Turning to find him, she swore again when she caught him hunched behind her, his featureless face far too close to her neck. She lurched back, then swiped at him again when he caught the hem of her dress in his claws.

The demon's tongue lapped at the air as he stooped low to the ground. It took little effort for the damn thing to reach forward and successfully capture the hem of her dress even as she made a hasty retreat. When she shrieked her indignation and lashed out at him, he didn't even acknowledge her. He didn't even budge.

"Hey!"

The demon's tongue tested the air as he hoisted her skirt.

"Hey!" She tried again, her voice getting shrill.

He pulled her close by the fabric, causing stitches to stretch and snap. Jessica felt the heat of his breath wash over her bare sex and immediately threw her fist straight at the demon’s head. The result was painful. She could feel the bones in her hand crunch. The demon's stupid skull was harder than she expected. With an irate, pained, shriek Jessica doubled over to cradle her hand – or she tried to. Before she went too far, the demon gathered her in its too-big hands, and pulled her close. 

"Hush, pretty. Hush."

Jessica struggled, pushing and shoving at its chest.

"No more. You will merely exhaust yourself."

"Let go."

It didn't.

In fact, it proceeded to use the new closeness to its advantage. While Jessica leaned away, and pushed at his chest, she neglected to realize how she was essentially reclining in his hand. Its palm nearly stretched the width of her back, the long fingers curling around her like he was a kid holding a butterfly. During her struggles she didn't notice the demon's freehand, and the way it lifted the skirt of her dress; not until it was shucked up to her thighs.

"I said—" she wedged her knee up to her chest, shoving her foot against his torso. "Let. Go."

Jessica shoved off of his hand, and she fell – and she was more than a million percent positive that the bastard let her. In her brief fall, she managed to twist her body to land on her hands and knees, but the demon also still had a grasp on her dress and the blasted thing was already ripped. The fabric shredded under his grasp and her weight, and while she was thankful for the freedom she was absolutely mortified when she felt the cool night air against her raised, and still-heated sex. The demon was fast, using his long body to cage her in place. A fleeting thought of Delilah crossed Jessica's mind, touching on how this whole thing was her fault and ending at acknowledging that she and her demon most definitely fucked—

The demon's voice drifted through her wayward thoughts like a car careening into oncoming traffic. He snarled in her ear, "Such a pretty little wet cunt."

Wha—

Jessica's breath left her lungs. Her body stilled. Her eyes widened.

The end of its tongue curled around the shell of her ear. "Pretty little mate."

With fingers curling into the soil, Jessica did her best to rally her thoughts, which had been derailed when the demon had demonstrated his penchant for dirty talk. She yelped as she was pushed from her knees, and onto her back. He was rough with her, but not in an aggressive manner that would result in her getting hurt. It was more reminiscent of an eager bed partner positioning their lover to their liking and the demon liked her on her back, legs spread wide—

Starting at her mons, the demon pushed its tongue down along her clit and tongued her sex. 

"Oh—" Jessica sighed, lifting her hips. The demon released a throaty chortle, sounding pleased. It bore down on her. Her clit was still sensitive from the orgasm she had had only a few minutes prior. Jessica trembled, wanting to fight the demon off but also completely enthralled by it. It gave a pointed and slow lick. The girth of his tongue drifted through her lips, flicking up against her clit and then starting again when the tip of its long tongue reached her mons. "—fuck!"

In a flash it was all gone, all of it. Jessica was left feeling needy and bereft. She lifted her head from the soil, primed to beg for him to continue.

"Would our mate like us to fuck her?"

"Yes," she said before she even had a chance to think. Then she shook her head. “No. Fuck. What are you doing to me?”

It crawled up her body. She should find his body grotesque, and off putting. She shouldn’t like the way the too slender, too strong, creature dwarfed her frame. But Jessica found her mouth watering as the demon leveled his hips with hers. One of his massive hands was splayed against the ground beside her head. The other was at her hip, tearing the dress skirt away.

“We are claiming what’s ours, pretty.” That wicked tongue laved her throat. “We waited so patiently for you to call to us. You will not be separated from us again.”

The questions Jessica had scattered like dust when she felt something hot and solid brush her wet core. Her hips undulated on their own accord and for the first time, she reached for him. One of her hands curled around the slim wrist near her head. The other held fast to his shoulder. When Jessica gyrated again, pressing her heels into the ground to raise her hips, his massive hand moved beneath her back–

And without warning he thrust forward. 

Jessica wailed her surprise as her hole stretched to accommodate. The movement was easy. It was a stretch, but her body put up no resistance. He withdrew slowly, and she had a dim awareness that his girth was notably thicker near the base. The tension in her body eased as he slid out, and then he pressed forward. Jessica tried to meet him, tried to participate even just a little bit. It was then that she became aware that the hand was fisting around her lower body. And he wasn’t thrusting into her. He was pumping her over his cock. 

When her foggy depraved thoughts likened the situation to a man masturbating into his fist, something inside her drew tight and her sex practically gushed. She liked that. The demon using her for pleasure like she was some kind of fuck toy. Her head and shoulders dragged through the soft soil with every movement. She didn’t even try to keep herself clean, she couldn’t find any real care for it – especially when his fist pumped her down onto his cock with increasing force. 

This had to be caused by the spell that she used. Why else would she be saddled with some sort of sex crazed demon? Why else would she fucking delight in being used the way that she was? Orgasm magic had to be a thing. 

Jessica reached to palm her breasts, twisting and plucking at her nipples through the remains of the dress. The demon released a lovely rasping purr. 

“Such a perfect hole for us to use…”

It was definitely the spell she used that did this. 

A particularly rough thrust made her moan. She hooked one of her legs around the demon’s bony hips and yanked her body up against his. 

“Our pretty thing.” Its voice was ragged, crackling and low. “Feels so good.”

It was the witches' fault for giving her this spell.

That big tongue lapped at the corner of her mouth and she eagerly parted her lips so she could taste him. She suckled at the organ with earnestness, imagining that she was sucking the demon’s cock. The responding growl vibrated her skin, and tickled her senses. She tilted her head back into the dirt, feeling the mounting pressure in her sex.

“Wanton thing,” he said gratingly. “Eager thing.”

It was Delilah's fault for catching the eye of a demon and making Jessica jealous.

"Uhn— please—" she warbled around his tongue.

"Begging so pretty now. So tight around your demon's cock."

"Yes," she whimpered, the muscles in her body drawing tight. She tossed her head to gasp for air. “Please. Please!” 

The pace he set with his fist grew fast and hard. When she was on the precipice of her climax the demon snarled something so fierce and wicked that it shoved her over the edge. At the first pulse of her orgasm, the demon came to a complete stop. She was pierced on his dick, her hips flush to his as her pussy fluttered and clenched. The demon bowed over her, nuzzling her neck and breasts.

"Good little mate. So good. Our sweet little wanton thing. Beautiful. So hot for us—" he growled quietly against her chest, still hot and hard and buried inside of her.

Jessica mewled wordlessly, a bit of a loopy smile stretched across her face. 

"—Our turn, pretty. We're going to fill you up so good."

God yes, there was more.

"I want to be on my knees," Jessica said, her voice a lazy drawl in the wake of her orgasm.

-

Jessica stared, her attention completely consumed by the computer screen. It had taken a handful of hours editing to get the introduction together. She spliced her interview with the woman at the motel, with footage of her drive to the trail, and her setting up the ritual. She created a decent time lapse that cycled through various angles of the ritual circle as the woods grew dark. She added some historical facts about the area, and the lore of the Jersey Devil and while she had decided to end the video with a shot of her forlorn expression as she realized the ritual was a wash… there there was hours of footage, from multiple angles, of her getting well and thoroughly fucked into the dirt. She caught it. It was all on video, and the demon wasn't a mere mass of shadow, but a living and breathing, tangible thing.

The video was paused with Jessica buck ass naked, poised on her knees with her back arching and a far too pleased smile lighting her features. The demon behind her was grasping her hips, obviously in the throes of passion. She still knew she should find the thing displeasing and horrific, but she somehow found it to be anything but. Jessica had watched with bated breath as the thing fucked her — she hadn't even realized how excited she was in the moment. The second the demon had pressed its tongue to her sex video-Jessica had turned into a smiley little idiot and she stayed that way until she was knotted, exhausted, and resting by the fire in the demon's embrace.

"You put on such a lovely show, pretty." The voice of the demon drifted into her ear as a harsh whisper, causing pleasant chills to tickle her skin. The video started playing again without any prompting from her. "Such a willing little mate. Watch as she smiles from the pleasure she takes from her demon. Watch as she wiggles and begs, so pretty for us."

A low, rolling chuckle surrounded Jessica as she shifted in her seat. Video-Jessica was a more than willing bed partner. She didn't remember moaning so much.

“I thought you were going to let me work,” she replied, trying to be terse but her voice was husky. She’d already watched a good bit of her own personal porno. “I need to get everything finished in time to post tomorrow.”

“There will be time for work later." Something ghosted along her mons, drawing a sigh from her. “Come.”

“You’ll let me work after,” Jessica said with little conviction. The button of her jeans popped free with the help of some phantom force. Her chair spun away from the computer and she found herself face-to-face with her smirking demon.

“Of course, lovely. We will let you work when we are through.”

The video wasn’t ready in time. 

[sanctus-ingenium]

i answer your asks vol 4

-

I'm not american. I HAVE heard back from Inprnt re: the $180 i requested a withdrawal for in july. They say that this has been a common issue lately (no kidding). They cancelled my withdrawal request and made a new one, saying it was some sort of issue with paypal. Yeah idk I think I'll wait for this new request (and the final withdrawal too) to be fulfilled before they start to earn back any amount of goodwill from me.

-

I think that's an interesting progression for the technology but I don't believe it's the logical next era, even centuries down the line. What I see potentially occurring is the democratisation of smaller engines. The majority of Mercury enginesmiths make small engines - and bear in mind that an 'engine' can be thought of as a catch-all term for any magic device that runs on dragonsblood. Things like long distance messaging, basic calculators, astronomy tools, Sir Victory's arm, that sort of thing - any of these magics are built off the back of a small combustion engine. And these are far more easy to pass into the hands of the public (as many already are) than something huge and specialised that requires an army just to maintain it.

Think about the supersonic bomber aircraft race during the cold war that brought about planes like the valkyrie - incredible technology, sure, but it wasn't replaced by a faster better plane, it was replaced by long-distance missiles that fulfilled the role better. It is more feasible that the Mezian church would develop more efficient ways to get their dragonsblood fuel than using holy beasts at all. The holy beasts are more likely to be made obsolete by some kind of, idk, harpoon with siphon kind of thing than a zoid type beast.

I can't speak about the conservation status of dragons but one of the main duties of an alchemist within the church is to handle fuel, and lately there have been new orders to synthesise a viable alternative to dragonsblood. Not because of a dragonsblood shortage (although there is one, this order came before that) but because dragonsblood is still too accessible to everyone else. A fully proprietary fuel even more absolutely under their control would solve a lot of problems for the church.

-

Church doctrine states that it is bone ;)

-

if you mean Krokodilos/Crocodile, no, the size difference between Guinefort/Nosewyse and croc was huuuuge and their heads couldn't be interchangeable. Krokodilos is the longest (though not the tallest) holy beast and he's not a dragon, he is a crocodile :)

Saint Guinefort was beheaded for an unrelated reason.

Here I can make a little diagram. When I say Nosewyse is tiny I mean it is tiny.

Croc's head is small for his body size though. His skull was recovered only in fragments and the rest was artistic interpretation on the part of the armoursmiths who made the chassis.

I also discovered that Krokodilos's tail is exactly 1 Pantera long. The huge tail was shielded without the vertebrae left bare because it had to serve as a counterbalance for the rest of croc's body, so it had to be very heavy.

ngl Krokodilos was originally a joke holy beast because i saw that drawing of a crocodile where it looks Like That and went haha funny... I'm glad to get a chance to actually write some solid stuff about him.

[nezu-spiketown]

Hey there pal, its me, ya gurl @toxic-spike-plumeria

👁️: How firm is your character's grasp on reality?

🧸: does your muse have any comfort items? What reaction would they have to it being taken away from them?

🕳️: What would startle your muse?

👁️: How firm is your character's grasp on reality?

His grasp on reality is actually pretty solid, sometimes even being too solid - he sees things quite plainly for what they are, often even possessing a highly keen eye to things others prefer to keep hidden. He’s very aware of his surroundings and key players in his world.

There isn’t generally much to be had for delusion, but there is some occasionally. If something does trigger it, he can be inclined to some trauma flashbacks of events that caused him great pain or distress, and is highly HIGHLY prone to depression and occasional hostility - not violence for the most part, but he can be quite surly and standoffish at times. That said, he has a history that did include high acts of aggression that he still harps on himself about internally. He’s very hard on himself even if he won’t necessarily say why most of the time. He’s a bit guarded and defensive because of these factors, but once he’s let his walls down, he’s truly a very kind and gentle soul.

🧸: does your muse have any comfort items? What reaction would they have to it being taken away from them?

Not comfort per se, but he does have a very nice albeit display only guitar pick made of stone with gold inlay of a cubone skull with crossed bones below it. It is the first thing he ever managed to win on his own for his music, and he’s had it in his recording studio ever since as a good luck charm. If it goes missing it wreaks havoc on his mind because he believes it is lucky. It’s also in large part because it’s the first thing of his own that he can truly say brought him great pride and true joy. It’s deeply special to him and he never lets anyone touch it. He doesn’t even have it on display to be seen, so if he even lets you into his recording studio, let alone allows you to get anywhere near this trinket, you can bet he trusts you fully.

🕳️: What would startle your muse?

He’s not a fan of loud people, which he finds irksome, but he’s not too easy to truly startle. You can get him with a good jump scare if you can manage sneaking up on him, but otherwise the only things that would startle him are things that concern his very few close loved ones. Something that could threaten them, or if they are later than usual to contact him when they said they would, this unsettles him, and it can make him feel deeply uneasy.

[charkyzombicorn]

Garp once got cussed out by Sun's personality au Luffy when he had seastone on and Garp didn't know how to react.

OHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOH--

Garp saw Luffy, drenched an tangled in the seastone net, and he wasn't making a sound. Garp didn't care to notice, he marched over to where Luffy was sat on the ship deck and covered his fist in a bit of haki, before punching the kid in the head.

Instead of rubber Garp's knuckles hit a solid skull, Luffy's head snapped down with the force, his teeth clacking together and his head didn't bounce back like it was supposed to. Luffy didn't whine, or yell or even cry. He just sat there. So Garp broke the silence. "You brat! This is what I get for raising you?! You're still a damned pirate!" He went to, because it was easy, he'd said it a hundred times before, he'd likely say it a hundred times again. He didn't bring up anything, he didn't mention that now, Luffy would never be a marine - now that his parentage was out.

Luffy finally raised his head, and Garp almost relieved at the return to normalcy; he was about to yell about how he was gonna be a pirate whether Garp liked it or not, and whine like a kid about not wanting to be a marine, just like back in the good old days when Garp could fit all three of his grandsons in one arm.

"You didn't raise me. You killed the man that raised me." Luffy grit, and the eyes that met Garp's were not grumpy, or even teary like when he last saw his grandson on Ace's final stage. Luffy was looking at him in a way Garp hadn't seen in a decade, the way Ace used to look when he thought too long. Hatred, grief, mistrust, the kind of look you had to earn.

Garp's teeth grit in turn. "Ace made his choice--"

"You made the choice to get in my way. Don't you dare accuse Ace of deserving what happened and don't act like I'm a child who doesn't understand exactly what you chose." Luffy hissed, his whole form shaking, his face pale and his pupils pinpricks. On his knees he was the same height he was when Garp would ruffle his hair and carry him when he fell asleep, but now Garp faced a man.

"I swore myself to the marines--"

"You were the closest thing Ace had to a father!" Luffy yelled, trying to get to his feet but his eyes glazed over and he fell to his knees again. He was breathing harshly. "Maybe it's a pirate thing, maybe it's because I'm a outlaw but I would have given up every oath I have if it mean't Ace kept his promise to not die! I would have sold myself to the marines in an instant if it meant Ace got the chance to live the life he wanted!" He barked. "But that's not justice, is it? Justice is hunting children, shooting down free men and bowing to the masters who would take your life because all they've ever known is to take! I hate you!" He thrashed in the seastone net, but it did nothing.

Garp stared at the man that used to be his brash, weepy grandson. The man who used to beg Garp to train him more if only to stay on the island a little longer. The man who used to come back to Dadan's with large bruises, broken bones and a smile because he got just a little closer to Ace that day. The man who loves so completely and unconditionally he doesn't mind bleeding for it. The man who couldn't lie. The man who said he hated Garp, after his love ran out of excuses.

Garp looked at the man, truly looked at him past the resemblance he had to Garp's youngest grandson.

Because his grandson, the only one he had left, was gone.

[mazeinthemiroh]

snow stained with blood.

genre: anti-hero au, jongho x reader, action, violence, romance

word count: 0.9k

warnings: violence, mentions of blood and guns, reader is attracted ti massive red flags but hey-ho ig

a/n: this is jongho as the winter solider, so if you're a marvel fan, you're gonna love this. so this was sent in by my dear 🧸 anon who if you guys didn't know is obsessed with jongho and that's totally valid. so anon, i hope you enjoy this! i haven't written an action/superhero piece before so i hope it's up to scratch! lemme know what you think hehe <33

It was not clear why you were drawn to him in the first place. And the very idea of being attracted to what people called a monster... well, that disturbed you more than anything else.

"I didn't want you to have to see me like this."

That would've been your cue to run away. Run as fast as you possibly could and never look back.

But you didn't. Of course you didn't. Your feet felt like they were frozen to the spot. You couldn't move, couldn't look away. There was an inexplicable conviction to keep watching, despite knowing in your gut that only bad things would ensue.

The man you knew as Jongho was not like other men. Whether that was a good thing or a bad thing, you weren't too sure on your first encounter. He was charming and polite, but there was a cold and calculative look in his eyes which made you feel there was much more to him than meets the eye.

Now you watching him single-handedly take on a mob, with what you now could see, shining in the persistent moonlight, was a metal arm. Underneath the brown suit and blazer he had on earlier, he looked like a gentleman, well-built and daring. Now, who was he? Was he the one they called 'the Winter Solider'?

Your heart was in your throat as you watched the men in full black surround him with various weapons. But you could see in Jongho's confident glare that he knew he had a chance. He always did. They were no match for him.

It was almost fascinating to watch his calculated moves. A fist to the ribs, a knife to the leg, and all of this while dodging the attacks of the others. He knew what he was doing. He's done this before.

That thought chilled you to the bone. That, and the fact that your bare arms made contact with the freezing air.

Before you really knew what you had got yourself into, an arm gripped your throat from behind. You tried to let out a shriek, but your sounds were stifled by the intensity of the person's grip on your neck.

Next thing you knew, something was held against the side of your head. It would take an idiot to not know what it was.

Jongho noticed your breathless whimpers and lashed around, glaring at the man in black pointing a gun to your head.

"Surrender now or I shoot!" The man screamed in your ear, causing you to twice. You tried to wiggle out of his grasp, kicking and thrashing as much as you could. But his grip was too strong on your body, it was almost suffocating you.

Jongho said nothing. He tried to hide the anger that bubbled up inside of him, but you could see the aggression in his cold glare. It was a side of him you hadn't seen before. But as chilling and deadly as his aura was, there was something very much attracted to him.

And when, in one swift movement, he took out his own gun and fired, his cruelly trained arm locked in place as he perfectly shot into the man's head, the bullet mere inches from your face. You could've sworn you felt the vibrations of the bullet in the air as it passed you, before entering the man's skull.

What did you feel now? Relief? Or mortification? You turned around to stare at the dead man's corpse. How did you end up here, in this situation? Your mind started to swirl.

Jongho's had finished with the rest of them. His breath was steady and slow, as if he hadn't just been combating the psychos that attacked him. Blood stained the side of his face like red paint adorning a painting. In some hideous way, it looked beautiful.

You stared at him. You should've run away. As fast as you could. Now, here, you had a chance again to do so. And yet you stayed.

"Thank you," your voice whispered; your breath could be seen in the cool air.

"I didn't want you to have to see me like this."

You felt like it wouldn't have made a difference. Because even with his previous gentlemanly nature, you could've sworn you were attracted to something much deeper. Perhaps you sensed the danger in him all along. Perhaps you smelt the blood that would appear on his hands before you even saw it. Perhaps you craved what he had to offer. A thrilling life. a life of adventure. Bloodshed. Terror. Hope.

"Well," you stepped closer to him, feet crunching through the snow, "we can't go on our date with you all covered in blood now, can we?"

Jongho scanned your face, perplexed. Your nonchalance was surprising to him. Your indifference... baffling. How could someone go through such a shocking incident and move on so quickly?

And he started to realise that you, too, were different. Different, just like he was. Intrigue sparkled in his eyes as you reached out to link his metal arm with yours. The same metal arm that just took on a mob.

As you walked away, arm in arm, the snow poured in a gentle cascade. It was sickeningly beautiful, really. But the disturbingly romantic scene is what you bonded over. You felt a twist in your stomach when you realised that actually, yes, you were attracted to danger. You were attracted to him.

There was a carelessness of the two of you, not giving a second glance to the bodies that lay on the snow stained with blood. There were more important things to focus on.

ateez taglist: @a-wandering-stay, @xlovehwa, @yeosangsbiceps, @anyamaris, @acciocriativity, @hawaiian-angel, @chammak-challokys (let me know if you want to be added/taken off)

[attractthecrows]

man i cannot stop thinking about Revallen finding the bones of his father. cannot fathom why the inquisition would be in coastal Nevarra. but it would be SUCH a gut punch not only for Revallen but also Dorian (the bones of a father that gave his life for his son(isn't that what a father should be?)) and the other companions to a certain extent (you've never seen the Inquisitor this haunted)

I see Revallen recognizing a landmark and just freezing. he doesn't move a muscle for like a solid minute, just staring at [whatever]. the companions are confused and concerned, if Cole is there he starts wigging out. someone asks what's wrong and instead of answering, Revallen takes off in a new direction, leaving the companions to catch up. he's practically barreling through the vegetation, completely ignoring the cries of slow down and Amatus!

Eventually they catch up to him, because he's stopped at the base of a massive, gnarled tree. Hell, it's not even one tree, it's a tangle of several different ones, roots embedded into what looks like a collapsed, rocky hillside. Some of the roots are blackened and sick, dark tendrils reaching up the trunks of the trees twisted together like thread. It's absolutely massive, and Revallen is standing at the base of the rooted stones, staring up towards the canopy. His eyes are hollow, haunted. when they ask him again what's wrong he turns his head to look at them for just a moment. then, wordlessly, he reaches out his hand, and places it on one of the thicker taproots tangled in the stone.

for a long, tense moment, nothing happens. then the taproot starts to move. a few pebbles fall. smaller, thinner wisps of root begin to smoke, resisting Revallen's mana, and then withdraw. Slowly, haltingly, the roots release their grip on the stones, revealing not a hillside but a collapsed cave entrance. Revallen pulls down one of the stones, and the rest follow, lacking the tension to hold them in place. then he steps into the cave.

there are signs of an old fight. darkspawn weapons and armor, and their blighted bones. against one of the cave walls is a semicircle of clear ground, roots reaching towards a skeleton in the center, clad in rotting Keeper's robes.

Revallen heads straight for the skeleton. He kneels next to it, and the companions enter the cave to his whispered elvish prayers.

They hang back, uneasy. One of them tentatively asks what happened here. Revallen reaches forward and picks up the skull from where it had fallen off the neck, holding it in both hands to peer into its empty sockets.

"During the Blight," he says quietly, "Keeper Dirennen made his last stand here. Darkspawn were starting to appear from this cave, from a single connection to the Deep Roads. Dirennen baited them, and when they were focused on him, he collapsed the entrance and sealed it. He was a gifted adahl'eralan - that tree outside was his doing. He gave his life to protect his clan."

"How do you know this?"

"I watched it happen." He shifts the skull to one hand to count on his fingers. "I was... 16 at the time. The last thing he did before this stand was carve my vallaslin."

"Your vallaslin? He was your Keeper?"

"No," Revallen stands, still holding the skull as if it were made of spun glass. "He was my father."

Then he turns and exits the cave.

do they follow? I mean, they must - he's the Inquisitor. but this is so sudden, so private. Dorian, at least, follows without question. he's never seen Revallen like this, and it worries him.

outside, Revallen is digging a hole at the base of the twisted tree, clawing through the dirt with his bare hands. His father's skull is set beside him on one of the taproots, watching the proceedings with its skeletal grin.

Dorian kneels beside him and places a gentle hand on his back. Revallen starts a little, but relaxes when he sees who it is. "Are you all right, Amatus?"

"Yes," Revallen says automatically, "no. I don't know. I never expected to set foot here again." He sits back, his filthy hands in his lap, and stares at the skull for a long, heavy moment. Then he lifts it tenderly off of the root and sets it in the hole, facing the sky.

"Is there anything we should do for him?" Dorian asks quietly.

Revallen sighs, rubbing an eye with the back of his hand. "Normally, we bury our dead with oaken staff and a branch of cedar, to help them on their journey and keep away Fear and Deceit. Then we plant a tree over their grave. But I have neither staff nor cedar branch, so this will have to do."

He scoops a handful of dirt into the makeshift grave. Dorian nods and does the same, and together, the pair of them bury the skull of Revallen's father.

"Hahren na melana sahlin," Revallen murmurs, pushing his fingers into the loose dirt, holding a seed. "Emma ir abelas. Souver'inan isala hamin, vhenan him dor'felas. In din'an na revas. Vir sulahn'nehn, vir dirthera. Vir samahl la numin. Vir lath sa'vunin."

A pulse of mana flows from Revallen's fingers into the seed, which sprouts, pushing up through the loose soil and growing rapidly to the size of a ten-year-old tree.

"Now that is an impressive bit of magic, if I do say so."

Revallen stands, brushing the dirt off his knees. "I'm not as good as my father was."

"He sounds like quite the man." Dorian looks up at the twisted column of trees, towering over the silver birch Revallen just sprouted. "What was that you called him earlier? Adahl..."

"Adahl'eralan."

"What does that mean?"

Revallen considers his answer as he digs some of the dirt from beneath his fingernails. "I think it'd be 'xylomancer', mage of trees. He could make the trees walk. In places where the Veil is thin, he could even make them sing."

"That's incredible. I wish I could have met him."

Revallen looks at him, then reaches out to stroke his cheek with the back of his finger. "I think he would have liked you," he says with a gentle smile.

[jynxeddraca]

Tiefling head canons

Because I'm in a mood and thinking about tieflings makes me happy. Some of these I've thought up independently, some I've seen elsewhere online and can't recall where but I've just folded into my head canons.

Totally got this idea from another person's post but I fully embrace that some tieflings can purr. In those that can it ranges from a noise that's high in the throat or very deep in the chest. I like the idea some can do it at almost a subsonic frequency so there's not any noise but their whole chest/body still vibrates.

Tieflings have dark-vision - therefore they have that cat eye glow in low light/the dark. No I will not accept feedback at this time.

I am always a fan of them having other senses sharper than humans. Not like 'I can smell your blood through your skin from across the room and hear a cricket fart' kind of thing - but definitely pick up on things a human is nearly sure to miss.

Not a fan of tieflings going into a true heat/rut where they go totally 'must fuck now' but them getting a random heightened burst of pheromones now and then after they've been with a partner for a while - especially if there's been a lot of biting involved. Basically it's the tiefling equivalent of women who get really super frisky right around the time they ovulate.

A very common home remedy among tieflings is a mixture of broth, oil, and sulfur - and every family has it's own ratios. In that same vein a common hangover cure is broth, charcoal, and oil.

Diets are the epitome of 'opportunistic'. They prefer meat heavy diets, especially rare/raw red meats, while also enjoy the gristle, bone marrow, and blood. They can eat anything a human could, and quite a bit humans can't. This includes rocks, bones, some things that are mildly toxic/poisonous, and foods that have have gone off with minimal to no ill effects.

Because of previous point - food poisoning is extremely rare for them to get.

Tail body language is just as much apart of conversations as hand gestures and while much of it is similar to cats - meanings can get complicated.

I see horn grabbing/pulling a lot in posts but I don't feel a lot of tieflings as being super comfortable with it if the other person isn't also a tiefling.

Honestly, I see a lot of tieflings being wary about non-tieflings trying to get with them because it seems to me a lot of people in world would either demonize or fetishize their "infernal traits".

That being said, they're also not opposed to relationships outside of other tieflings and some tieflings will happily use people's curiosity/fetishization to their advantage and work at brothels.

If a tiefling has one or both parents who aren't tieflings, then they can take on traits from the non-tiefling parent (ex. one parent is an elf, tiefling kid has a lifespan more akin to a half-elf). They, and their kids, are also more likely to have a kid that does not look like tiefling if they have a baby with another non-teifling.

I fully think that a solid 1/3 of all "surprise" tiefling babies are not because a parent made an infernal pact, but because both parents somewhere in their lineage have a tiefling ancestor and they just don't know.

You've heard of tieflings being raised by humans? Well I think, because of the last two points, the reverse happens as well and you can get what appears to be a fully human/elf child birthed and raised by a tiefling.

Tieflings totally have a higher normal body temp. Probably around the 100F-105F range.

Regardless of how big or small their horns are, their skulls are still thicker for weight distribution. Many tieflings can, and will, headbutt someone in a fight. Even if a horn doesn't hit you - the blow is likely to break a bone in your face and they will not even be fazed.

Headaches and neck/shoulder tension is really, really common both because of the added weight of the horns when they're adults and when the horn itself is first growing in as a kid.

I imagine most tieflings have horns that are primarily made up of a keratin sheath around a much smaller horn bone (like how cow or goat horn are). Because of this they don't have lots of feeling in their horns and some tieflings might pierce their horns in places for decoration.

Some tieflings that have antlers also shed their antlers just like deer do. I will not be taking feedback at this time.

The pattern and shape of ridges on their skin is unique to every tiefling - but most of them tend to appear and follow bones closer to the surface (ribs, hips, knees, elbows, etc)