#tw corpse desecration

[falloutspammer]

[almostourgalaxy]

lil slides for 🎤 i am so curious abt what his fave looks like !

Meet Ayeohh Leetoh, or just Honney. A little rust blood wwvho ALMOST outran him one night, almost wwvon that game of hide and seek, savvwed her friends from him, and, wwvhen push came to shovvwe and he had her cornered, didn't evvwen bother putting on a bravvwe face. She stood her ground, crying and shaking, but she didn't budge until he snapped her little neck.

[miki-13]

I

What the fuck

Fucking WHAT????!!!!!!!!!!

Yeah it’s real!

Could somebody report his ass to the NOAA for this?

Maybe the US Fish & Wildlife Service too.

Maybe any other relevant agencies.

*WHALE JUICE?????!!!!!!!!!!*

No I don’t care that it was already dead!

And I don’t care if the brain worms told him to do it!

This is VILE!

The ableism, antivax fuckwittery and suspicious death of his wife, and endorsing Trump was bad enough.

But this is insane!

What is it with this guy and messing around with dead animals?

Sickening shit!

[mylittlestims]

Day 9 of heartnosehalloween: something / someone you’d love to dress up as for halloween

(X) (X) (X)

(X) (X) (X)

(X) (X) (X)

[aritany]

55!

so, this book is kind of grosser than my current repertoire,

send me a number between 1-55 and i'll post an excerpt from the corresponding chapter of RESENT YOUR SECOND CHANCES!

[eranthiss]

okokok we can talk to the lizards....

what does Babygirl make of Ghetsis? Alder? Drayden?

Ghetsis... that scrawny little worm of a human.... He was useless until his dying breath. No flesh to the man, all sinew and bone in her jaws. Tasted of concrete and mouldy jerky. Had to rinse her mouths out after.

As for the other two... why would she waste her brainpower on something so... irrelevant ? They only live because her mistress wills it. The... fuck, what did he smell like? .... cold one, though... he is tolerable enough.

[mad-hunts]

oh, by the way, it's random headcanon time because i thought y'all should know this: barton's doll motif does, in fact, go deeper than his 'doll-making.' because although his hair isn't always this way, you can always sort of tell when barton is really spiraling, because he will just stop brushing his hair to let it become matted and resemble a ' doll's ' hair more closely. and as for what that looks like, think the ringlets that seem to resemble a doll's that has yarn for hair that i used in my pinned post, except they're blonde. so yeahhh. though, of course, there's nothing really wrong with that. however, comma, did i also mention that he is SO wack that he stitched someone else's arm onto himself and now uses it as his own like one of his ' doll-like ' creations?

and as you guys can probably already tell, there are definitely some things wrong with that 💀 i mean barton just cannot go even one day without causing some sort of horrific upset, am i right, guys? JSJSJ / j NAH i'm kidding, i'm kidding (... actually, i might not be this time. idk LMAO ). but anyhowww, i'll tell y'all more about that later because it will probably be a long post due to the nature of how that came to be, but how are we feeling about barton now with this information? like has your opinion of him changed or is it pretty much the same? i am just genuinely curious so feel free to leave a comment below to tell me.... because i know it is gross to think about and also terrifying, but barton is SEVERELY demented so he doesn't think of it that way personally

[yeagersss]

tw cannibalism

Sukuna would definitely eat your corpse after you die. No, he's not desecrating you. He simply does not want your body to bear his burdens any longer. You did not need to share his burdens anymore as that is what had gotten you killed.

Burying you meant someone would defile you. Disturb you. Use your corpse against him because at the end of the day, humans and sorcerers alike would do anything to break the wretched four eyed demon that brings chaos and destruction where ever he went.

He doesn't cook you. Prefers to eat you raw to savor your exquisite taste. He would take his time to savor each bite. His mind replaying each and every memory he had spend with you as he chews on your flesh slowly. From the day he had met you to the day he had lost you.

He saves your heart for the last and when he sinks his teeth into the organ, he thinks back to the time you had taken his large hand into your smaller ones and placed it against your chest, showing him just how wildly your heart beats for him.

I love you. You had admitted to him shyly.

And then nothing but a deep pool of blood remains on the futon the two of you had shared together as Sukuna looks up and gazes at the forest from the parted shoji screen of his bedroom.

The silence is deafening.

[buddhistanchovies]

When you black out after that weird glittery snack and all of a sudden you’re in an A Level Biology class but you sure as hell aren’t a student.

[13thdoodle]

TW : flickering lights

Achieving Normal by @shadowfaerieammy

"I've heard that desecration of a corpse is pretty taboo. I'm only half-dead, though, so maybe I don't count." The flickering stops as abruptly as it started. A drop of sweat trails down the back of Dash's neck as the hallway temperature rises all at once. He lets go of Fenton's shirt and takes a step back, no longer sure he wants to mess with the new kid.

Ayyyyy~ my part for @invisobang 2024 with @shadowfaerieammy and @starry-907 !! Check out starry's piece here~

Danny is being very good at blending in and being a very normal human teen is my fave :)))

Non flickering versions and some close up shots under cut~

I don't think it's obvious on the original size, but Danny still has blue eyes but with green glows on top of it

Also give him some claws :3c couldn't really show fangs on that pose so claws it is uwu

[ilium-ilia]

Daughters with Soft Underbellies

john price x fem!reader | cowboy/outlaw x preachers daughter | masterlist

Chapter Twelve: apple pie

tw: minor violence

You remember the Blackpeak Coal Mine Slaughter well—very well.

Plastered over the front page of every newspaper in the nation, it’s hard to forget the event and the harrowing accounts of survivors and the family members that were left behind in the wake of the tragedy. Over thirty men were massacred that day. Nothing but lifeless torsos without hands to stop the bleeding, limbs too far out of reach to retrieve. Twelve more were injured. You remember the paper retelling a story of one of the workers, now rendered blind from the explosion that rocked The States, rippling through the population. 

Confusion kept everyone stupid for some time—it was widely accepted that this was an accident. Natural gases within the earth that ignited when explosives were detonated in order to carve deeper into the earth’s surface. When this take was first published and traveled down the wagon trail to Penmosa, you remember your father huffing at the words, fist clenched tight around the arm of his chair. 

“Serves them right. Desecrating God’s green earth like that. Bastards, every one of them. You hear me, girl? This is what human greed does. It makes you a corpse.” 

You suppose that, in the end, he was right. 

Weeks later it was confirmed that this was no accident, but rather intentional. Workers came forward with stories about strange men in masks wandering into the worksite towing obscene amounts of TNT. Many men fought back, only to be shot. Others couldn’t quite escape before the earth caved in on them, burying them beneath mounds of rubble. Even to this day, they still find pieces of them. Shattered bones and dusty work boots, never to be lacquered again. 

Last you knew, the criminals were still on the run. Some uncouth hit and run. Nothing but a slimy act of terror. The old company went out of business, unable to make up for the lost workers and the compensation that was owed, and a new one moved in, still putting the site to use. A memorial was erected in honor of the lives lost. The day has been lost to memory and grief. 

Now, you know otherwise. 

Dead or Alive: for the Blackpeak Coal Mine Slaughter. 

Your stomach twists as you travel down the winding roads of Grand Hollow, but the nervosity chewing on your neurons makes it impossible to enjoy the otherworldly beauty presenting itself before you. When Mr. Beckett had warned you about John Price and his posse, you had never expected violence in a magnitude such as this. You’ve broken bread with these men. Fished in the same waters. Laid on the same dirt. 

Now you understand his secrecy. All John’s hidden motives and dodged questions, answers given with vicious snark and a half lidded glare. What terrors does he expect to rage now in Blackpeak? Was his slaughtering of those working men not enough? Must he now steal from their grieving families, too? 

Guilt spears through you like a freshly born knife still hot from the furnace. How dare you have the audacity for such emotions? Had you known John Price was this much of a monster, you would have let him spill your blood next to the campfire the night you fled from your father. 

“Pecora.” 

The driver’s rough voice pulls you from your nightmarish anamneses. You glance up from your worn, tattered nails and stare at the back of his head where his wiry, white hair greets you. He does not look at you, but you’re certain you were the one he spoke to. 

“Pardon?” you ask. 

He looks over his shoulder and stares at you blankly for a moment before pointing to something on the cart’s right. “Pecora,” he repeats. 

Following the crooked curve of wrinkled his finger, you spot an ewe and her lamb. They’re terribly out of place, fresh white wool contrasting against the darkened grey cobblestone of the streets, but the ewe does not fret. She trots through the foot traffic, splitting pedestrians who gawk at her and her child with coos, all while stopping to chew on the weeds that spring up between the bricks. 

Her lamb, however, stumbles behind her on jelly legs with wide eyes and a mouth that knows nothing other than to cry. Its voice is strident as it weaves through its mother’s legs, eyes anxiously gazing at the tall creatures that surround them. Utterly lost and out of place, you hum as you watch them find a patch of grass to lay and bask in. 

“Oh, sheep,” you realize. “How cute.” 

“Cute,” the driver repeats with a nod. 

Proud, baronial buildings slowly dwindle into something quieter the further you’re taken away from The Twin Rose. At first you passed them off to be more stores and places of interest for citizens and travelers alike to visit, but you come to the realization that these are houses when you catch a woman throwing bed linens out onto a clothesline. 

Wide lawns stretch out like royal carpets before two story houses with large windows and porches sporting long sunroofs. If your father witnessed the white paint that decorates the wood, you’re certain he would keel over in the dirt of the streets, scandalized that simple homes would bear the same pure milky sheen of his church. It’s quieter here without the hustle of the deep city. Fewer pedestrians, sparse horses, children laughing in a nearby field as they kick and throw various toy balls around to one another. 

The cart comes to a stop in front of a house at the end of a cul de sac. It’s different from all the others in the neighborhood, sporting a rosy pink rather than snowy white. Several flower bushes line the siding of the house, almost in full bloom, bitterly reminding you of your mother’s lily plants back in Penmosa. From somewhere inside of the house, music bleeds. It’s a quiet crackle with a canorous melody soaring over compressed violins, trumpets, and pianos. It sounds wrong. Nothing at all like the warm tones you’re familiar with from the church choir. 

Your driver hops out of his seat, worn boots scraping on the stone at his feet, and offers you a hand. “Here. Laswell home.” 

Placing your hand into his worn palm, he helps you out of the cart and gestures to the front door with a wrinkled, lopsided smile. You give him a quiet thanks as he loads back up, reins flicking and prompting the horses into action where he turns around and slowly trots back down the street. 

Each beat of your heart threatens to drown out the music as you trot up the steps to the porch. The sillage of rose and lavender bleeds from the flower bushes at the base of the stairs and mixes with the warmth bleeding through the open windows of the house. Swallowing, you approach the door and knock. 

There is no answer. 

Someone obviously is inside the house. You can hear chirpy humming and various utensils being knocked around, so you try again only to have the same luck. After a few minutes, you muster up the courage to open the door and peek your head inside. 

The foyer is small with shoes lined up against the floorboards and various coats and hats hanging on hooks drilled into the wall. Just past the entrance you can see a staircase that leads up to the second floor with a rich vermillion runner along dark stained wood, but there is no sign of the woman you were sent to help. 

“Lottie?” you call out as you close the door behind you with a shaky hand. 

Still receiving no response, you exit the foyer and begin to wander where the noise is loudest. You travel down wide hallways with open windows, sunlight bleeding through wispy drapes like mist on a cold autumn morning. Various paintings catch your attention as you walk, hung up high and proud, displaying scenes of nature and animals and captured with a keen eye. Other hallways split off like a burrow of tunnels, like a warren lurking in a field, but you keep your feet steady until you reach the kitchen. 

The woman you’re assuming is Lottie stands with her back faced toward you as she sways her hips in front of the stove. A phonograph plays on the counter, spinning a waxy cylinder and playing its music loud and proud. A rosy pink skirt twirls around her legs as she wipes her hands off on her apron, then toys with the frizzy curls of her bright blonde hair as they fall from her disheveled bun. She’s humming along to the music—some upbeat tune you don’t recognize—as she hops on her feet, hips twisting as she reaches for a large wooden spoon. 

“Miss Lottie?” you ask once more. 

The woman squeals like a bird caught in the maw of a barn cat as she spins around, spoon waving as if she wields a knife. She’s rather pretty, you think, even with this look of terror on her face. Pale brows rising as her teal eyes widen, free hand pressed against her collarbones as if to still her fluttering heart. She looks you up and down and then sighs before wiping her brow. 

“Oh, darlin’ don’t do that to me. Damn near scared me half to death!” Her voice is saccharine and slow, accent drawing long vowels and dropped consonants. Southern, you think—Georgia, if you had to guess. 

“I’m sorry, miss,” you apologize. You raise your hands as a sign of good faith before you glance at the items behind her on the counter. Fresh meat, a mason jar of white, bubbly liquid, a fresh block of cheese. “Laswell sent me here. I’m supposed to help with dinner?” 

“Did she now?” Lottie asks. Her face melts. All tension vanishes back into the depths of her skin as a smile pulls at her lips. “Reckon we have guests to cook for, then?” 

You nod. “Yes—erm—myself and a few others. Four men.” 

“Sounds like we have half a battalion to feed,” she muses. Tapping the spoon against the side of her hip, she seems swept away by the chorus of the song crackling from the phonograph, melody bleeding from the speaker like a warm campfire in the midst of the boonies. “Awfully kind of Katie to send me a little helper, then. Why don’t you grab one of those aprons darlin, we can’t have you mucking up that dress of yours!” 

She points over her shoulder to a small rack of off-white aprons long stained by home cooked meals. Each of them are embroidered with little flowers. Some sport roses, others daisies, and what you think is an attempt to do forget-me-knots. You snatch up the one with lilies before tying it around your waist and hopping in line next to Lottie, who isn’t afraid to throw work your way. Handing you a knife, she orders you to peel potatoes and cut them into cubes while she works on heating the stove up enough for the meat. 

When she asks you what your name is, you tell her the truth, though it’s overshadowed by the mention of your nickname. Lamb. It makes her giggle something sweet and bubbly like champagne. 

Lottie is a beautiful woman—it’s difficult not to find yourself starstruck by her. Rosy cheeks flush in the heat of the kitchen, illuminating the sweet and sparse freckles that spot her face. Her lips are painted a matte cherry red, though it slowly fades each time her teeth dig into the tender flesh as she mutters to herself about the next steps for her meal. Then, there’s her bosom. Your eyes burn when you notice the swell of her breasts and how her corset can hardly keep them from spilling over the blushing fabric of her dress. She’s any man’s dream. 

“So,” you speak up. Small talk is not a strong attribute of yours, and Lottie and her phonograph are doing plenty of conversing for the both of you. Still, you are a stranger in this home, and the acrimonious bile in your stomach urges you to make something of yourself. “You live here, then? With Laswell?” 

“Well, of course,” she Lottie giggles. She’s got flour smeared on her face, dusty eggshell staining a line across her forehead. “Certainly wouldn’t be doin’ all this good cookin’ for free.” 

“Are you and Laswell sisters, then?” you ask. 

Lottie’s in the middle of placing a thinly rolled piece of pastry dough on top of her sheet of pot pie when she freezes. Her gaze is quizzical as she turns her attention to you, eyes studying every line in your face. For a moment, there’s something malicious that lurks in her gaze. An incensed flicker that leaves your spine tingling. It quickly vanishes when her eyes drop to the necklace dangling around your neck. 

“Oh, bless your heart. Aren’t you just as sweet as a peach,” she says with a quiet smile before returning to her work. 

Unsure of what else to say, you continue to do as you’re told. Chopped potatoes. Rolling dough. Making bread—sourdough. Slicing apples. Warming sugar until golden brown. You’re grateful for the work. It’s been a long time since you’ve cooked a proper meal, and you’re hoping you’ll actually be able to get a taste of it this time around. 

Neither you nor Lottie take a break until her apple pie is cooking in the oven and her pot pie is staying warm atop the stove. She fetches you a cup of water from a valve in the kitchen, leaving you slack jawed, and corrals you out onto the porch where the two of you sit next to one another on a thatched bench.

As you drink, you can’t help but realize that even the water tastes different here. It’s strange. Tangy, like blood from a split lip. You hold the glass up to the setting sun where amber light refracts through it, illuminating the bubbles that swirl through the liquid. 

“You’re not from around here, are you?” 

When you turn your attention back to Lottie, you realize she’s staring at you, bright eyes piercing through you like cold rays of sun. Pressing your lips together, you place your hands into your lap, fingers clenching around your glass. 

“No, I just got here today, actually,” you explain. 

She nods. “Where’re you from?” 

“Penmosa.” 

“I’m not familiar.” 

“It’s… well, it took us a fair bit of travel to get here.” 

“Us?” 

Blinking, you realize the slip of your words. John’s name rattles through your brain like dark ink on parchment—pinned to a board, face on display for all to see, a call for violence; for vengeance. 

“Yes. I’ve been traveling with… a man named John.” 

“John Price?” Lottie confirms. 

Solicitude seeps deep into every bone in your body at her recognition. “Yes. Him and the others will be here for dinner tonight. I… I hope that isn’t a problem.” 

“Oh, not at all!” she beams as the tips of her feet tap against the porch. “It’s been quite a long time since I’ve last seen John and his boys. Didn’t think he’d be comin’ back to Grand Hollow so soon. Last I knew he was out wandering while tryin’ to wait for things in Blackpeak to cool down.” 

The more she speaks, the more your brows draw together. “You know him?” 

“Of course I do! Him and Kaite have been doin’ business for a little while now. He’s a fine man. A little strange, but I think all those English folk are, if you ask me.” 

A subtle discontent stirs at the base of your skull leaving your mind spinning. A dissonance screams. It burrows deep and roots. You’ve been warned that John Price is not a good man, and you’ve seen the very proof of it yourself. That man he shot and killed. The clothes he ripped off of your body. The wanted poster with his name and face plastered on it. 

Yet, he saved you from your father, and Lottie spews about him as if he were a disciple. You know it is ungodly to cast judgement on another person, but you can’t shake the discord of the situation. How thin is the line between salvation and betrayal? 

“Speak of the devil, and he shall appear,” Lottie murmurs. 

There, just down the road, trots a line of horses. Bear’s familiar head rears while his tail flicks, shooing off flies attempting to nurse on him all while Kyle pats the side of his head. John lazily looks around at the houses, shoulders squared as he seems to chat away with Laswell, who leads the pack on her own horse. 

Swallowing, you prepare for what you’re sure is about to be the most painful dinner you’ve participated in for quite some time. 

Laswell is the first to dismount, leg easily swinging over the side of her horse without a dress to get in the way. She trots up the porch and greets you with a polite nod before her hands reach for Lottie. The woman grins, bright, pearly teeth flashing between the blood red of her lips, before she allows Laswell to help her off of the bench. Then, their lips meet. Soft, chaste—enough to stain Laswell’s mouth with color. 

For a moment, all you can do is stare. Two women, embracing one another in such a way. Heat simmers from your core for only a short moment before it’s boiling, splashing bubbling water all up your insides until they’re searing and raw. You can hear John’s chuckle haunt you from somewhere along the staircase. 

“Come on, Lamb,” Lottie urges with a wave. “Let’s go set the table.” 

The distance you sow between you and John is appreciated and welcomed, but it only lasts for a few fleeting minutes before God has brought the two of you together again. Palms flat in your lap, eyes staring at the long table as you’re squished between Kyle and Riley, John’s eyes flickering like a lone candle flame across from you—the weight is nearly unbearable. Crushing. Bones fracturing. Splinters sticking in the raw, fleshy parts of you. 

Thick fingers curl around his fork, dark hair lining the space just below his knuckles. You watch as his tendons dance just below his skin as he cuts into his food before he shoves it into his open maw. As he eats, you wonder how many men he’s murdered with those very same hands. How much blood the earth has had to swallow because of him. How many children weep over rotting fathers because of what those hands have done. 

As he cracks his knuckles, you’re reminded of the first time he ever taught you how to shoot. Trigger finger trembling, he told you a gun is nothing more than a tool. Something to protect yourself with. It’s a similar mentality he barked at you when you dared to challenge him over his slaughtering of that farmer who threatened to soil you. Protection. Saving. Family. 

What honor was there in slaughtering those coal mine workers? 

“I can see why Laswell’s tied you down with a ring, Lottie,” John hums. His thumbs graze over one of your sourdough rolls, nails biting into the crisp crust as it caves in beneath his pressure. He places a fluffy piece against his tongue and offers a tight-lipped to the woman. “With cooking like this, I reckon you had her ensnared.” 

Lottie’s giggle falls like a sheer blanket over the table as she shoos John off with a wave. “Oh, I can’t take all the credit. Your little lamb was quite the helper. Pretty much did everythin’ for me! And, as far as I know, she ain’t taken quite yet.” 

John’s eyes settle on you, and though you know better, you can’t help but return his gaze. Sticky like tree sap on fresh logs, you can’t look away. You hold his gaze, jaw tense and aching, he hums. His lips quirk into a smile and for the first time in your life, you find yourself wanting to slap it from his face. 

“Maybe we ought to keep you around after all,” he muses. 

Scoffing, you glance back down at your plate. There’s hardly anything left for you to eat, yet you poke at it with your silverware anyway. “Awfully rich coming from the man who considers me a right nuisance. What did you call me again? Cargo?” 

Enmity soaks your tongue so much that it does not feel like your own anymore. This is your father’s tongue that rots your mouth—bitter and swollen from long standing annoyance, ever petulant. Even John seems to recognize this change within you. Eyebrows rising, he shakes his head and chuckles. 

“Right,” he agrees. “The most headache-inducing cargo I’ve ever laid hands on.” 

A hush halts the table’s conversation leaving you to face the white hot anger brewing in your chest all by yourself. You note the sideways glances. The way Kyle turns away from you. The way Soap’s lips press together. 

Look at you, once again, the prodigal daughter. 

“Well, how about some dessert to offset all this bitterness?” Lottie suggests, voice gentle like honey, blunt humor pulling at her words. 

Laswell pushes her plate away before looking up at her wife with a nod. “A perfect idea, love.” 

Apple and cinnamon dance in a waltz on your tongue but their feet are numbed as the rest of the feast is finished in choppy conversation punctuated with long bouts of silence. Fatigue pulls heavy at everyone’s eyes, but your anger keeps you wide awake. Fork clutched in hand. Metal scraping on porcelain. When everyone is finished, John attempts to have everyone stay behind to help clean up, but Laswell waves him off, saying that he ought to get everyone back to the hotel to rest. 

Before you leave, Lottie bids you farewell with a soft hug and a kiss on the cheek. “Welcome to Grand Hollow, darlin. I hope it’s everythin’ you need.” 

You ride on the back of John’s horse. You’re much too close for comfort to him, and your skin tingles as if there were a million small beetles dancing on your body. He at least offers you the courtesy of not talking to you, allowing you to stew in your thoughts as your eyes glaze over and focus on the dusty stones that crumble beneath the horse’s hooves. 

Still, you are incensed that you missed all the omens. Vague warnings from Mr. Beckett. The bursts of anger that seemed to seep from every pore in his body. The way he never flinched when enacting violence upon others. 

You spent so long attempting to find humanity in the eyes of the wolf that you failed to notice the fresh blood staining his teeth. 

“Ever been to a theatre before, Lamb?” 

It’s the first thing John’s said to you for the entire ride, and it’s enough to get your ears to quirk. Gaze shifting upwards, you notice an unfamiliar sight that you’ve only heard about from word of mouth. Fat bulbs light up the street as they line a marquee board listing off show names and times. Stories you don’t recognize, with actors and actresses from a whole other world. Behind a glass window sits a man selling tickets, who looks as if he’s about to fall asleep face first into the palm he rests his chin on. 

“Can’t say that I have,” you reply tartly. 

“They used to be shows of just actors. People dancing on stage, things of that sort,” John explains, head leaning back in active conversation. “Used to have women hiking their skirts up, too. Would probably send your daddy into a proper fit if he ever saw it. Now they’re showing moving pictures. Films, I think they call it.”

“Is that so?” Short. Dull. The theatre passes you by and you’re back to staring at the ground. 

John’s hips shift in his saddle, fingers tightening on the reins. “The boys and I were thinking about seeing one tomorrow.”

All you do is hum in reply. You watch as John’s shoulders tense and rise before falling with a huff. The horse begins to slow, its proper trot dwindling to a lazy meander. 

“You know Lamb, I can’t say I’m too overly fond of this new attitude of yours. Picking fights at dinner while we’re guests wasn’t too godly of you,” he bites. 

“Well, it’s a good thing you’re getting rid of me soon, isn’t it?” you retort. 

His body stills. Not even the swaying of his horse can move him. 

“You might be right about that, little lamb.” 

With Laswell tucked away at home, John is the only one left to show you to your room. He bids the boys a goodnight before leading you up to the second floor, key pinched between his fingers as he unlocks the door for you. You find your carpet bag waiting for you on the foot of the largest bed you’ve ever seen—big enough to house six swine comfortably, if you had to guess. Another vanity sits shoved against the far side of the wall, along with several complementary products of soap and oils, but the wonder is lost on you now. 

Sighing, you take the key from John’s hand and busy yourself with sorting through the items in your bag. John’s gaze sears your skin. Shoulder tucked into the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, he stares at you. Through you. Piercing your body as if his eyes were knives. 

“You’re not still upset at me for earlier, are you?” he suddenly questions. 

“Earlier?” you repeat. You’re still turned away from him. Shoulders hunched, hands busy. You know it’s not smart to face away from wolves but you can’t bring yourself to be scared of his bite anymore. 

“When I interrupted your bath.” 

“Whyever would I be mad about that?” you reply bitterly. 

While John’s chuckles are usually warm, earthy things, the one he gives you now can only be described as sour milk. Thick and clumpy, noisome and in desperate need to be thrown out. “Full of fire today, aren’t you? Did you ever talk to your daddy like this?” 

Your fingers have just wrapped around your comb when he asks you this, and the unfamiliar choler it fills you with nearly suffocates you. Tossing the item onto the comforter, you whip around to face him, head tilted to the side and teeth grinding like eroding stones. 

“No, Daddy beat me whenever I opened my mouth out of turn,” you snap, stating the obvious with so much vitriol you nearly choke on it. Still, it propels you forward, feet sliding across the floor as you approach him. “Is that what you wanna do to me, John?” 

“You better slow down, sweetheart,” John warns. 

Ignoring him, you stalk closer on wobbly legs. Nothing but a freshly jellied lamb. 

“Gonna take off your belt and beat me the way your daddy did to you?” you challenge. You’re within biting distance now. John’s no longer leaning against the doorframe, but instead standing with his feet wide and firm as if ready for a blow. “Gonna make someone pay for your pain? That’s all you wan’t, isn’t it? Vengeance? You’re no better than the man behind the belt, John Price, you’re-” 

All it takes to shut you up is a hand on your jaw. 

Thumb and fingers curling into the fat of your cheeks, John Price is close enough to your face that you can feel his breath fan across your skin. His grip is firm enough to get your lips to part, but not enough to ache—not yet, anyway. Your pounding heart quivers against your sternum, making it impossible for you to swallow properly as you stare at him. 

Tobacco pairs nicely with the hue of his eyes—dark like a lake rippling during a storm. You want to be scared. Everything within you tells you to be scared. These are the hands that slaughtered innocent lives. Still, the way his thumb brushes across your bottom lip is the most gentle thing you’ve ever felt since your mother’s last parting kiss to your forehead, and you’re not sure why, but it feels worse than any slap you’ve ever received before. 

“Dunno what’s gotten into you sweetheart, but I’ll just assume you’re in desperate need of some good rest.” John huffs when he releases you, hands falling to his side before his fingers wrap around the doorknob. 

For a moment, he stands there like this. Gaze wandering up and down, his pupils soak up the narrowing of your eyes and the shaking of your knees before he swings the door shut. 

“Goodnight, Lamb.”

follow @mother-ilia to be notified of updates | get early access to chapters here

[chirpycloudyrobin]

tw body horror / description if desecration of (fictional) corpses but

i wonder if it's a thing w the aliens to taxidermy their fave pets or some shit

like walk w me here

shine likely loved mizi as much as an alien could and was probably sad that her own pet was sad at sua's death so imagine she bought sua's body from nigeh (who prollie doesnt give that much of a shit) to turn sua into a doll for mizi so at least mizi would have her sua with her, right ?

and then on unsha's side... taxidermying ivan's body as a keepsake. maybe as a doll to put on display for his wife. or maybe as a trophy for his first venture into the human pet business like how some people keep models of their first successful work kind of thing.

are u getting my vision ? 🧍

[idkfitememate]

Hello ! I don't know why, but I just had the idea of a raccoon!creator that is in the Fortress of Meropides because he had stole a lot of things. I can easily imagine the trial with humans or hybrids against a raccoon that is just trying to defend itself.

Raccoon!Creator will just be a silly thief who was the first raccoon (and animal) sent to Meropides to serve time in prison because of crimes it committed.

(If you're okay with writing raccoon!creator, can i be the 🦝 anon please ?)

Have a good day and night.

They Stole What?!?

૮꒰˶ᵔ ᗜ ᵔ˶꒱ა Pairings : GN! Raccoon Reader vs Fontaine

૮꒰ྀི∩´ ᵕ `∩꒱ྀིა W.K. : 226

໒꒰ྀིᵔ ᵕ ᵔ ꒱ྀི১ Tags/CW&TW : Crack, so much crack

໒꒰ྀི˶˙Ⱉ˙˶꒱ྀིა Author’s note : I guess I can do silly thief ૮꒰ ˶꒦ິ꒳꒦ິ˶꒱ა-

“I guess you’ll be staying here..?” Wriothesley questioned.

He knew the rules and laws of Fontaine could be… weird, at times, but to enforce them on a Raccoon was… hmm…

It was that trial that all of Fontaine seemed to collectively realize that even the animals of Fontaine followed the rules and laws… huh.

Watching that trail felt like a fever dream. Wriothesley wasn’t one to come to see trials, but upon hearing it was a Raccoon… he had to. And so had everyone else apparently because it was a full house. Also watching a Raccoon defend itself was.. and experiencing.

The Warden genuinely felt like he was having an out of body experience the second the bars closed on Racoon who was glaring up at him. Your eyes bore into his soul in a way none of the other prisoners were able to. It genuinely shook him.

The worst part and most disturbing is what you stole.

You. A Raccoon…

…Stole the fucking Oratrice Mecanique D'analyse Cardinale.

How? They couldn’t figure it out but you did, that was confirmed. Why? No one can speak Raccoon so they didn’t know.

All the male knew was that you were somehow more dangerous than a good majority of the prisoners in the Meropide.

… Dear Archons what would happen when you get loose?.. He didn’t want to know.

໒꒰ྀི˶˙Ⱉ˙˶꒱ྀིა Author’s note : I read your ask and then my first genuine thought was this encounter:

“What did you do?”

“Oh I stole, you?”

“Also stealing.”

“Damn… is that a Raccoon?”

“Oh yeah…”

“Why are they here?”

“…Mass murder, Attempted world domination, Sororicide, Forced lobotomy, Mutilation, Torture, Child abuse, Kidnapping, Vandalism, Stalking, Blackmail, Terrorism, Instigating mass suicide, Worldwide destruction, Incrimination, Brainwashing, Snuff filming, Propaganda, Sabotage…”

“What-““Extortion, Forgery, Gaoling, Defilement, Enslavement, Unlawful imprisonment, Crimes against humanity, Hate crimes, Mass murder, Prostitution, Mutilation, Indecent exposure, Harassment, Crimes against humanity AGAIN, Vandalism, Property damage, Enforced cannibalism, Cannibalism (unintentionally), Shoplifting, Attempted genocide, Terrorism also again, Assault and battery, Breaking and entering, Theft, Fraud, Rape…”

“OKAY WHAT-“

“Torture also also again, Psychological abuse, Incrimination, Blackmail also also also again, Corpse desecration, Mass kidnapping, Treason, Enforced suicide, Hijacking, Animal cruelty, Zoophilia, Extortion, Stalking, Smuggling, Arson, Attempted bribery, Conspiracy…”

“WHAT THE FUCK-“

“Infringement, Attempted global domination, Attempted matricide, Patricide, Graverobbing, War crimes, Trespassing, Embezzlement, Underage/hit-and-run, machinery operation, False imprisonment, Slander, Underage pornography…”

“…”

“…”

“… And more…”

“WHAT IN THE ACTUAL HELL-“

(For context I used both Junko Enoshima and Eric Cartman’s crime lists-) Anyway-

Their just a little guy officer ૮꒰ྀི∩´ ᵕ `∩꒱ྀིა

Also welcome 🦝 anon! <3

[nodawnesperia]

Character Profile: Orthros

The second character from the first ask is here! Orthros and Zolrath are interesting with how interconnected they are and this is adding stuff further into Orthros' past as well so not just the last 15 years are affected by it. Zolrath's story may have already suggested as much though so I hope you'll learn something new here! TW for torture, gore, body horror, slight trypophobia, and desecration of a corpse.

Name: Orthros

Age at the time of the Barred Gate breaking: ???

Current age: ???

Affiliation: Celestials

Appearance: While the base of his appearance is the same, Orthros has undergone huge changes. His helmet has been cracked, the feathers on his shoulder guards have been ripped out, his clothes are dirty, and the large clock once a part of his back is now completely missing. The floating arms on its sides are still with him but severely cracked and damaged.

Personality: According to the priestess, Orthros is steadfast and vigilant in his guard of Esperia's timeline. However, he has allowed a certain evil influence to mess with it for a while, hoping their paths would cross naturally when the right time came. Whether it actually did or not is unknown as well as most other things about the god. But according to the priestess, he is still out there trying his best to put together the pieces of Esperia's shattered future.

Backstory: Glorimon 12th 1703 I have been deemed unfit for work in the mines. The Hypogeans have assigned me to their magical research division as a test subject. I've been given a diary to keep so that they may better monitor my progress. My name is Asha, my family is unimportant. I am a priestess of the Church of Light, a follower of the god of time. I have been given visions by my god. I will detail them more later.

Glorimon 15th 1703 The first phase of the experiment is now underway. For the last three days, I have been administered a potion with each meal. It tastes gross and feels as though something thick and slimy slides down my throat every time. There are no side effects as of yet. The first time I received a vision was years before the Barred Gate broke. I was but a child back then, but I remember it as clearly and vividly as if I saw it every day since then. In my vision, the great god Orthros was fighting with a serpent-like Hypogean across Esperian history. I could recognize some events while others were completely foreign. The serpent demon got the upper hand, tearing the clock from the great Orthros' back but in return took a mighty blow that sent him careening through time and space. It was a vision so powerful that I ran to my mother and cried until she took me to see a priest.

Glorimon 25th 1703 The first phase is progressing well according to the mages who come to check on me. I'm not sure if that is good or bad but the amount of potion I have to drink has been increased. I noticed strange bruises appearing on my body during the night but none of them ever hurt even when I touched them. I hope this is all the potion will do but I worry. The second vision I received happened after I became an ordained priestess. In this vision, I saw the mighty goddess Dura and the god-crafter Ansiel creating a giant celestial clock that took up the sky. It started spinning backward and all of Esperia reversed. Trees shrunk into saplings and seeds, the elderly became young, then children, the land changed with the seasons until there were only summer and autumn left. The clock has exhausted all of its power and finally came to a stop at a time I didn't recognize. Then it stood, and I somehow knew it was gathering power to become active again. It was a vision equal parts hopeful and frightening.

Calimon 2nd 1703 My whole body is covered in bruises and welts, yet none of them hurt. I look into my reflection on the spoon they give me to feed myself with and I cannot recognize the person I see. My face is swollen, I can barely see. Most days, I am so tired that even lifting a pen is a problem. I don't know for how much longer I will be able to write. When the Barred Gate broke, I was already nearing my fifties, and I hadn't seen a vision in decades. But that night, I saw a vision so horrifying, so terrible, that it's been keeping me up at night ever since then every time I remember it. I saw Esperia with rivers flowing with blood instead of water, with human skins strewn around trees as if growing on them, and with every land animal and every bird and every fish covered in eyes, all looking at me. The image flickered like a torch in a windstorm, then changed into the exact opposite. A peaceful world where children played happily and trees bore fruit three times the normal amount. The images kept switching as if two forces were fighting over showing them to me. I didn't know what to do. I didn't want to see any more.

Calimon 30th 1703 I can feel movement inside the welts on my body. The mages said the second stage of the experiment is progressing well. I don't know what they're doing to me. I don't want to drink any more potions but they are even more adamant about it now. They say my affinity for the Divine Light – my faith! – is what makes me such a perfect test subject. I can barely see. Something is crawling, scuttling about INSIDE me! I received another vision, just a few days ago. I saw myself. Young, happy. I wasn't a priestess in my vision. I had a husband, a child. I don't know what the great Orthros is trying to tell me with that vision but it gave me peace during my sleep.

Duramon 26th 1703 They are ready to burst. All the pain I never felt before came back tenfold. The mages had to cast multiple pain-relieving spells on me for it to become somewhat manageable. I heard them talking about other test subjects who went mad with agony. The welts and swells on my body are full to bursting and yet, my skin holds. I wish it didn't. I wish I could claw whatever is inside there out but my hands have been restrained to the point where even writing is an issue. Another vision came to mind, one that happened a long time ago. I'm not sure why I didn't remember it before. I saw the serpent-like Hypogean again, weaving what looked like streams of water. Every move he made sent a ripple through the whole tapestry. And the tapestry he was making was terrible. I cannot remember why. I cannot remember any details of it. All I know is that it filled me with dread. And then, above the tapestry, I saw my great god Orthros, hanging by those same strands of water the Hypogean was weaving together. He was motionless. He was dead.

Luxmon 13th? Creatures are ripping through my skin, crawling out, and then devouring what they just ripped up. I asked one of the mages to write in my diary for me. I have been given so many potions and so much relieving magic... that I cannot even feel it. I can only see as grotesque monsters come from my arms and my legs and my face, Hypogeans the lot of them. Does this mean the experiment was a success? Will they finally kill me? Request denied. Subject will continue to be monitored, healed, and readied for another delivery. A vision came to me again today. My god hasn't forgotten me and hasn't died. The celestial clock I've seen all those decades ago appeared again. Smaller, cracked, but definitely still powerful. It was sitting, biding its time, gathering its power. Inside its body, I saw my great god Orthros, recovering. He will fight the serpent demon yet again, in due time. I cannot wait to see his glory return.

Auramon? My wounds have mostly healed, with great aid of magic. I suppose I am valuable enough to them to keep around. That is a little worrying... I would do anything not to have to go through that agony again. I don't know how much more my body can take. I don't know what day it is anymore.

??? Subject has been terminated due to poor health conditions and inability to perform another delivery. This diary and the attached research notes are the property of the Temple of Death and its associated magical researchers. Glory be to Annih and his many many children!

[serickswrites]

Winter Whumperland 2024

Day 1: prompt: used as a decoration; TW: gore, body modification, blood, corpse desecration, character death, mcd, captivity, restraints, gag

Day 2: prompt: exhaustion; TW: referenced torture, wounds, hurt/aftermath, hurt/comfort, caretaker and whumpee

Day 3: prompt: escape in the snow; TW: captivity, torture, restraints, escape, hypothermia

Day 4: prompt: gifts from whumper; TW: yandere, stalking, threats, creepy/intimate whumper

Day 5: prompt: cryptid attack; TW: broken bones, blood, injury

Day 6: prompt: candles; TW: captivity, restraints, gag, implied non con, creepy/intimate whumper

Day 7: prompt: nightmares; TW: captivity, torture, restraints, blood, temporary character death, nightmares, flashbacks, hurt/aftermath, hurt/recovery

Day 8: prompt: blackmail; TW: threats, blackmail, referenced noncon, referenced videotaping

Day 9: prompt: countdowns; TW: kidnapping, restraints, drugging, manipulation, implied torture, cruel whumper

Day 10: prompt: poisoned; TW: poisoning, unconsciousness, cardiac arrest, respiratory arrest, cpr, unclear character status

Day 11: prompt: icicles; TW: explosion, head injury, blood, wounds, impalement, unconsciousness

Day 12: prompt: holiday angst; TW: grief, death, mcd, referenced mcd

@amonthofwhump

[nonnieapple]

⛈ ☂️ Peach Pit, 4- An Apple Core's Cyanide Seed☂️ ⛈

• (Akura-ou x g/n reader x Tomoe)  • r a t i n g: m a t u r e • 1 6 8 4 w o r d s  •�� p o s t e d 14.01.2024    🌧  navigation 🍑 previous chapter 🍑 next chapter • s u m m a r y: you're a peaceful farmer in the mountains during the sengoku period. someone starts stealing your peaches, and the thief turns out to be a chaotic oni, and the events that ensue flip your life upside down. • c h a p t e r s u m m a r y: where you go, akura-ou goes, and where he goes, trouble goes. TW: fires.

  The peaches were still aplenty. It was curious. It seemed that he took your words to heart, only taking a few a night. It was fascinating. He didn't seem like someone with much restraint. Did he... tolerate you? No, no, that was a preposterous thought. Probably just planning and plotting to kill you and desecrate your corpse. 

  Enough idiocy. Today you had decided to venture down to a festival in the second nearest town. 

  The journey there was annoying but wasn't the worst thing you've had to endure. 

  You dawned a white kosode, right side over left. From up in the hills the town seemed to be bustling, but now it was a ghost town, and you were the ghost, floating and floating all alone in foggy air. At this rate, you could've stayed in your house and gotten the same experience with fewer leg cramps. 

  A wind blew by. You tensed. Peaches. Iron. Petrichor. And a hint of charred wood. It reminded you of...

  "Humaaaan!" Long, toned arms were thrown around you roughly. You gasped, reaching up to stop him from choking you. He didn't. You frowned. What the hell was that? That was the scariest hug ever. Felt like a chokehold for a moment. Actually, several. 

  "What the hell are you doing here?!" You seethed as you pulled at his arms. 

  Akura-ou let go of you lazily. 

  "I'm here to see if there are any pretty girls in town," He said, placing his hands on his hips. You scowled. You liked him better from afar, like a fireplace. Nice to look at, painful to touch. Well, not that good to look at. It also hurt. He hurt all around, his garish nature blinding. 

  You heard shuffling throughout town as though it had suddenly woken up. Much like bugs under a rock. 

  You reached a hand behind him, snapping your fingers on the other hand which he gingerly followed with his eyes. You wished you had your dagger. 

  "Did you follow me?" You whispered as people gathered around you. 

  "Maybe you followed me, human." Akura smiled, looking at your displeased, sharp eyes. 

  You retracted your hand. 

  The villagers came up to you, old and young, the young anxiously jittery, the old bowing their tired backs. You gazed at them, unimpressed.

  "Thank you for banishing the oni, oh great priest," They said, bowing, none coming too close. They didn't register Akura-ou's presence. His face twisted in a mix of confusion and agitation. 

  "You're welcome. Now let me pass, you're hoggin' the air," You remarked, turning to them briefly as a lock of your updo fell over your eye. 

  They bowed, scattering towards their business, the small stalls filling up. The scent of food and incense filled the air. It was becoming louder, but it was still rather quiet. A festival, close to Obon. 

  "The first time the last of the priests comes here in ages," You heard briefly. Something about human gods and sorcerers, magic, exorcism. Boring. You hummed in displeasure. You strayed from the main path in town, choosing to wade through empty alleys. 

  "Eh? Why didn't they run off when they saw me?" Akura grumbled lowly. 

  "Because they didn't see you. I placed an ofuda on your back to make you invisible." You pointed to his back. He twisted around, reading the ofuda. It read "air". 

  "You are too flashy and inhuman to blend in. The girls will run when they see you." You ran your hand along the wooden houses. 

  "Run to me," He corrected smugly.

  "From you. You're plain awful. Any human would run if they were in their right mind." 

  "You didn't." He leaned down. 

  You laughed hollowly, eyes closing as you flashed your teeth. Your laugh came to a halt, voice low and with a tired rasp. 

  "I said if they were in their right mind."

  You side-eyed him. He didn't wear his coat this time. Only the mesh shirt you had stabbed through and a layer of shiny gold necklaces, and dangly earrings. They swung with each one of his broad steps. 

  You stopped at the corner, leaning on the house. You pointed to a girl with glossy hair and a face like a doll. She was well dressed in a kosode with a chrysanthemum print. 

  "She's pretty. Maybe you should unlatch yourself from me and follow her around," You suggested. 

  Akura shrugged, flicking his hair and tilting his head to the side.

  "No, not my type." His ears lowered. 

  You hummed in deep, deep disappointment. You clicked your tongue.

  "What a pity." 

  You bought food from a stall, giving more coins than needed, and packing the food. 

  "Are you going to eat that?" Akura-ou nagged. 

  "I don't like eating in public." You averted your eyes. 

  "Just turn yourself invisible too. Big deal." He waved a hand. You raised a brow. The smell of the food was savory and tempting. 

  "I doubt I can hide myself from you." 

  "Why hide from me? I'm great!" He tugged on your shoulder. Thankfully if he touched you, no one saw you, so you didn't look like you were pulled by an unseen force. 

  "Where are you- dragging me! You fiend!" You spat, slapping away his claw. He stared straight ahead. You followed his line of sight. A stall full of alcohol. Something dark twisted at your stomach. Not hunger, not fear. Dread and craving were more of a fit.

  "I'm not drinking with a weird guy in a mesh shirt. A weird yokai in a mesh shirt? That idea's dead in the water." You hugged your waist, your shoulders raised tensely. He smiled unnaturally. 

   "Your loss." 

  You had never seen someone drink so quickly. It was like there was no bottom to his stomach. Because there wasn't. It was a void, a vacuum of alcohol. You blanched at the sight. You silently crept away, coming up to a stall with jewelry. They had a multitude of necklaces, earrings, and bracelets. You eyed the necklaces. One was of a knife much like your dagger. Maybe you'd commission a necklace with a mini replica of your dagger. So even if an insufferable jerk stole the real thing, you'd have something to remember it by besides your unreliable memories. 

  You picked out a rather pretty set with flowers. Sakura. It was criminally underpriced and you had to reverse haggle with the seller, a nice old woman with brown hair and eyes.

  You left, creeping away.

  "Trying to ditch me?" 

  You jumped, covering your mouth. 

  Akura-ou again. 

  "You must have something better to do." You avoided looking at him. 

  "How 'bout checking in on your kitsune friend for a change?" 

  The wind blew by. It was surprisingly cold, raising goosebumps on your skin. Akura looked fine. Even after so much alcohol, he was fine. 

  "You know Tomoe?" 

  Tomoe? That was his name? 

  Curious. The surprise was evident on your face as you slowed your steps. 

  "I saw him a few times." Correction- you saw him each morning, yet you felt like if you told Akura, he would freak out. You'd freak out. You were freaking out. Always. 

  "A few times?! He can never mind his business!" Akura barked, rolling his golden eyes. 

  "Neither can you," You muttered.

  "There's a brothel over there. Go there, maybe it'll help you... to leave me alone..." You whispered the last part as quietly as you could. 

  Akura looked to the brothel. His black lips were downturned. 

  "I'm bored here." He sounded like a bratty child. You blinked. Why were you even entertaining him? Sure he could kill you any second, but you might as well ignore him until he tries to. 

  You turned away and kept walking. You would be heading home after a few more stops. The reverence the villagers held for you sickened you and brought back unpleasant memories. 

  "Oi! Human! You hear me?" He rushed after you. 

  You kept walking, breathing in the fresh air yet untainted by his dark energy. 

  "This isn't funny." 

  You studied the architecture silently. 

  "What if I set something on fire?" 

  You shooed a butterfly away from your kosode. 

  "I'm going to kill someone. Who should it be? That old man? Or the little girl?" He said, forcing a villainous tone. 

  You stepped over a pebble.

  He huffed loudly. 

  You wondered if Maeda still sold baskets. His house was nearby. You could get some, splurge a little. Which was a depressing thought. A pitiful sign that you were getting old. 

  A glint caught your eye. A bright red one. 

  A fire broke out in a few stalls around you, the flames growing and flickering like blossoms in the wind. Your eyes widened. 

  You grabbed his wrist. He avoided your gaze now.

  "Stop this buffoonery! You're going to get someone killed-" Your heart thumped, fear setting in deep within you, an all too familiar fear of watching everything burn down to the ground. 

  You hadn't realized it until the first tear dropped. You were crying. Akura ou's expression betrayed his surprise. More powerful than any magic were human, stupid human emotions. 

  The fire faded. 

  You wiped your tears. They felt like blood on your hands as you stared into nowhere with static in your head. 

  "Human?" His voice rumbled from behind red locks. 

  You blinked away tears, searching for his eyes. Your vision was blurry.

  "What's your name?" He whispered.

  You said your name as quietly as you could. The wind blew, and it was surely whisked away. 

  You blinked away the last of your tears, shaking your head. 

  In front of you stood nothing but empty space, and your "air" ofuda was attached to your chest. 

  You didn't look at the charred stalls. You marched straight home, invisible and absent, your mind in the clouds and feelings in the doldrums. 

  That night no one showed. 

  You didn't know what to feel or think. 

  You cried in your sleep, and there was no one but your bed to wipe them away. 

  Little did you know, that there was someone who watched, all night, without touching a thing, besides a single peach.