#tw corpse desecration

[falloutspammer]

[serickswrites]

Deck the Halls

Warnings: gore, body modification, blood, corpse desecration, character death, mcd, captivity, restraints, gag

"Caretaker, I think you'll like my latest decoration," Whumper cooed as they dragged a bound and gagged Caretaker from the basement. "I worked extra hard on it this year."

Caretaker struggled against Whumper. They had been trying to find a way to liberate Whumpee when Whumper found them. Whumper had been quick to tie Caretaker up and shove them through the door to the basement, leaving them alone in the dark. Caretaker had vowed that they would find a way out and get Whumpee to safety before beating the ever loving fuck out of Whumper.

"Come now, come now, really, it's absolutely splendid. You just have to see it!" Whumper continued to drag Caretaker along. "I would hate to have to smack you unconscious so that you miss the debut of my new decoration. I dare say it is the prize of my collection and will be for years to come."

Caretaker stopped struggling. They would be of no use to Whumpee if they were unconscious. They glanced around looking for Whumpee. They were certain that Whumper would have dragged Whumpee out first, but Whumpee was nowhere to be seen.

Whumper shoved Caretaker to their knees in front of a drape of cloth. Whatever was beneath the cloth was huge, nearly as tall as Caretaker was. "Behold, my latest and greatest decoration."

Caretaker gasped as Whumper ripped away the cloth, revealing what was beneath. Or who was beneath rather.

Whumpee stood on a small pedestal. Their eyes were closed, but their head remained upright. Blood had dried on the corner of their lips. They were dressed like a nutcracker, complete with wooden sword on their hip, and large hat tucked under one of their arms that had been carefully bent. Caretaker's mouth went dry as they realized it had been sewn to Whumpee's fingers. They stood completely still on the pedestal.

"Aren't they fantastic? Look, I can even make them walk with my latest modification." Whumper stepped onto the platform behind Whumpee and grabbed onto something. Whumpee's head didn't move as Whumper made their legs lift stiffly. Whumper marched Whumpee forward a few steps before twirling them around.

Caretaker began to sob as they saw the mechanism for what kept Whumpee upright and moving. Whumper had pierced Whumpee's body with a series of wooden dowels, each connecting to a main pole running the length of Whumpee's back. They realized that Whumpee was only upright and unmoving because of this. They realized as Whumper continued to speak that Whumpee was dead.

"I cried too when I first saw the completed project. Whumpee was simply to beautiful not to include them in my collection, don't you think?"

Whumpee was dead. Caretaker hadn't saved them. Caretaker hadn't saved them from anything but a terrible death. And a terrible thing after death. Whumper was going to find a way to preserve the body forever and keep them on display. This was all Caretaker's fault.

"I had to attach this main pole first and that proved trickiest because they wouldn't stop squirming and crying. The main anchor point here," Whumper pointed to the blood stain on the left side of Whumpee's upper back, "took care of that of course. I doubt they lived long after that pierced their heart, but I'll never know."

Caretaker stopped listening to Whumper as Whumper continued to prattle on and on about how they mutilated Whumpee's body. How they desecrated Whumpee's corpse. Whumpee was dead. Caretaker had failed and Whumpee was dead.

"I'm not sure how to get their mouth to open and close like a real nutcracker, but I'm sure you and I can work out how to do that in a matter of hours, what do you think?"

Tags: @mousepaw @jumpywhumpywriter @knightinbatteredarmor @hufflepuffwritingstuff2 @anightmarishwhump

@steh-lar-uh-nuhs @celestialsoyeon @st0rmm @ay5ksal @pedro-pedro-pedro-pedro-pe

@pepeniascat

[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)

[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

[lumpofwhump]

Bad Things Happen Bingo: Public Execution/Torture

CW: Gore, emeto, death wish, corpse desecration

--

“What’s this?” Paul Waldrop, co-owner of Waldrop-Thornton industries, asked his old friend, accepting an ornate envelope with a raised eyebrow.

“I have an announcement to make,” John Thorton replied.  “I’ve found the people who took Jinn.”

People, not person, Paul noted, trying to decipher where this was headed from John’s icy, distant expression.  As much as Paul hadn’t liked the disruptively softening influence that John’s missing wife had been having on his partner and their operation, he found this new version of his friend even more unpalatable.

“I’ll be needing to make some changes in management as a result.”

Paul’s blood ran as cold as John’s eyes.  “I’ll be there,” he said, doing his best to keep his voice even.

“Good,” John said with a thin smile, staring at his friend intently.  “I’ll need your support if things get messy.”

–

“Be careful of his eyes,” Thornton had said to his goons before they’d set in on Barclay Fletcher some seemingly interminable length of time ago. “I’ll want them good and open.”  After the beating, they’d left him bruised and with what he could only imagine were at least a couple broken ribs, alone in a dark room in the depths of the labs to think about this terrifyingly specific request.

When the door finally opened to his cell, his mismatched eyes were untouched but nonetheless ringed by dark circles and temporarily blinded by the slightly flickering overhead fluorescent lights at that.  Before he could fully adjust, Thornton’s men roughly hauled him forward by the arms, not bothering to let him try to keep his balance on his own.

“Ow – Where are we going?!” he demanded in a voice hoarse from screaming and then disuse.

One of his escorts backhanded him hard to the back of his head, eliciting a yelp of pain.

“Hey, careful,” the other said.  “The Director wants him conscious for this.”

They dragged and pushed him as necessary through the lab’s countless winding halls until he was biting back screams of pain from the effort of walking on beaten legs.  Finally, when they came to a wide room cleared of equipment, the two guards released him, leaving him to stumble forward and fall to his knees.  His face flushed with shame, and he looked up, a furious expression on his face.  He immediately went pale as he registered the scene around him.

Genmods.  Dozens of them, as many as a hundred.  He recognized some of them, the ones he had personally experimented on – tortured, some part of his brain corrected, despite himself.  The ones that even bothered to look at him had stone-faced, pitiless stares for him at best, and mocking smirks at his injuries more often than not.

Thornton stood toward the back of the room, looking down at him contemptuously.  Director Waldrop stood next to him, nervously adjusting his tie and pointedly not looking at Barclay, or really, anyone in particular.

“Hey, Fletcher,” came a snide voice from off to his left.  Barclay whipped his head to the side to see Ryan, Thornton’s monstrous, hulking genmod son, smirking at him and towering over another figure.

Director Richardson.

The last time they’d seen each other before he’d been hoisted from his bed, beaten, and locked in a cell some days – weeks? – back, the Director had been furious at him.  He was supposed to dispose of a subject who’d outlived its usefulness… his subject.  He couldn’t, though, for whatever goddamn stupid sentimental reason.  So he’d had one of the med techs sneak it out to the safety of Medbay, conveniently out of his or even the Director’s control.  Unfortunately, the Director had found proof of the call he’d made to arrange it.

You’re on thin ice, boy, the Director had told him.  First you let my servants leave from right under your nose, and now you’re letting useless subjects out against orders… I’m beginning to think through which sort of tests you’d be the best material for.

He’d slammed Barclay roughly against the wall by his throat and watched him frantically struggle and choke out pleas, only to switch his grasp to Barclay’s hair and send him hurtling back toward his room in staff quarters.

We’ll continue this conversation tomorrow, the Director had threatened.

Now, though, the man looked if anything more beaten than Barclay imagined himself to be.  His face was blotchy with bruises, one of his eyes thoroughly blackened and swollen shut.  He steadied his trembling, kneeling body on one hand, the other being horrifically twisted and broken beyond all recognition.  He wheezed in pain from injuries Barclay couldn’t see and definitely didn’t want to imagine.

“SIR!” Barclay shouted, or at least tried to.  His voice nearly shook, but he held it together.  For now.

The Director jerked his head up and over toward Barclay with an agonized expression.  “CLAY!” he responded just as frantically, and turned toward Thornton.  “My assistant has nothing to do with any of this, John,” he choked out.  “No more than I do.  Let him go.  If you do anything for me before whatever happens here –” He swallowed.  “Let Clay leave.”

Thornton narrowed his icy blue eyes and scowled.  “I owe you nothing, Dave,” he said cuttingly.  “And your boy here has done enough all on his own.  Pick him up,” he ordered his men, who Barclay vaguely remembered as having tried to drown him some years back.  

They hoisted him roughly to his feet, one of them not-so-accidentally brushing a hand against his broken ribs.  He let out an undignified squeal of pain, thrashing against the men on either side of him.  He glared, humiliated, in the direction of one of the genmods in the crowd who’d started to laugh at him, struggling for his freedom and what was left of his pride but causing himself more pain in the process.

“Don’t let him look away,” Thornton instructed.

“What - what is this?!” Barclay shouted, his voice tinged with panic.  He looked toward Thornton and Waldrop and briefly noticed that the latter quickly averted his gaze.  One of the men at Barclay’s side grabbed either side of his face and forcibly turned it back to face Ryan and the Director.

Ryan smirked at him.

Barclay tried to glare back, but from the genmod’s expression it was clear that he’d utterly failed to be the least bit intimidating.

“Now that everyone’s here, Dad,” Ryan said to John, “mind if I start opening my present?”

Barclay’s stomach turned at the euphemism while some of the genmods surrounding him chortled, if nervously.

“Don’t make it too quick,” Thornton said from behind Barclay, annoyance in his voice.

“Let him go!” Barclay screamed frantically.  “He didn’t kill your wife or whatever, Thornton.  Please!  Let him –”

“What, Fletcher, you’d prefer it was you, then?” Ryan said with a hideously sadistic grin.  With no further warning, he tore the Director’s left arm clean off at the elbow with a sickening sound, made worse by the older man’s seemingly endless shriek of pain.  Barclay’s own scream joined in to create a cacophony of agony.  He felt nauseous.

The Director collapsed forward onto his face, his remaining, shattered hand unable to support his weight.

“Oops, maybe I shouldn’t have started with your good arm,” Ryan said with mock-concern.  “Sorry about that.  Here, catch,” he said, turning to Barclay and throwing the severed limb at him.

Blood spattered Barclay’s shirt as the arm made contact, followed by vomit as the remaining contents of his stomach spilled uncontrollably out of his mouth.  He let out a sob, only to begin loudly dry-retching.  He shut his eyes to block out the sight of the bloodied Director writhing at Ryan’s feet.  This earned him another smack to the back of the head.

“Don’t get yourself knocked out, Fletcher,” Ryan warned him. “Unless you want to give Dave here a few days to develop an infection before we start up again.  Though… hm.  I actually kind of like it.  What do you say, Dad?” Ryan looked past Barclay at Thornton.  Apparently Thornton shook his head, because Ryan followed up with, “So that’s a no.  Eh.  I’m not exactly the patient type, so… works for me!”

With that, he lifted Richardson upside down by the leg opposite to his missing arm and tore it off before letting him drop to the ground with another, hoarser screech.

“STOP!  Stop, please stop!” Barclay begged, trying to pull free from the larger, stronger men holding him back.  Tears flowed freely from his eyes as vomit continued to drip from his mouth onto his knees and feet.

Ryan frowned and raised an eyebrow.  “What, you want to just leave him to suffer like this?  I knew you were a dick, Fletcher, but really, that’s a bit much.”  He shook his head chidingly.

“F-fuck you,” Barclay snapped, then involuntarily sniffled.

“Eh,” Ryan replied with a grimace.  “You’re really not my type.  Anyway!  Here we go with Arm Number Two!”

Even some of the Director’s former subjects were looking away as Ryan knelt down onto Richardson’s prone form, dislocated his remaining arm with a loud snap, and then tore it off with an expression of (im)pure glee.  He was as bloody as his victim now, if not moreso.  The Director, for his part, could no longer force out pleas that were even slightly comprehensible, reduced to sobs, gasps and shrieks.

“Make it stop, you bastards!” Barclay screamed over the din, thrashing as tears and snot ran down his face.  “What do you want?!  You’ve got whatever fucking revenge you could’ve wanted, now let us… let him…!”  He let out a despairing whine. “Sir… sir, please hold on, I’ll…”

“You’ll what, Fletcher?” Thornton said from behind him, sharply enough that Barclay flinched.  The guards turned to let -- or rather make – him face Thornton, who stared completely unimpressed at the pathetic sight in front of him.

Other than the Director’s screaming, the room was silent as Thornton studied Barclay.  Finally, he nodded to his men.  “Let go of him.”  Looking back in Barclay’s direction, Thornton spoke loudly enough for the entire room to hear.  “Go save your Director, then, Fletcher.  If you manage to fight off Ryan, I might even let the two of you go.”

“C’mon, Fletcher,” Barclay heard from behind him.  “Davey here can only wait so long before he runs out of blood.”

Barclay swallowed and turned around to face Ryan, eyes burning with tears and hatred.  His whole body was trembling.  He clenched his hands into fists and took a tentative step forward.  He was just steeling himself to make a run at Ryan when the huge man tossed the blood-soaked Director to the side and bore up to his full height, challenging Barclay to attack him with an upward jerk of his equally-bloodied chin.

Barclay forced himself a few halting steps forward on quivering legs.  He faltered as Ryan’s grin widened, and flinched when the genmod picked up one of the Director’s arms and bit a finger off with a gut-twisting crunch, never taking his eyes off Barclay.  He tried to will himself on with everything he had in him, but…

“I-I can’t,” Barclay admitted in a small, shaking voice as he sank to his knees.

“You want to say that again?” Ryan taunted.  “Dave’s screaming made it a bit hard to hear you just now.”

Instead of further humiliating himself for Ryan, Barclay jerked back around to look at Thornton and Waldrop.  “What am I supposed to do here, get myself torn apart?  Was that the plan?  Because - ha - I’m not playing along.  I’m not going to go and let that…” He let out a whimper, with an involuntary look back at Ryan.  “I just… I can’t, okay?” He finished weakly.

“And after all you’ve done for him,” Thornton said to the screaming Director as Barclay let out another sob.  “Hold him, and make sure he’s watching,” he ordered his men.

Barclay bolted before he could think it through, making a run for the door as two, then three sets of footsteps pounded after him.  He had to make it, or at least get them to make it quick for him, get it over with; he couldn’t let them drag him back to face the Director after his failure.

His determination meant nothing, though, as an enormous hand grabbed him by the back of his neck, scruffing him as easily as if he were a newborn kitten.  “And here I didn’t think you were capable of disappointing me, Fletcher,” Ryan said.  “But that… ‘ey, Dad, you sure I”m killing the right person here?”

Barclay started flailing in panic before Thornton even started to answer, imagining Ryan’s powerful hand wrapping around his arm, snapping bones, tearing them apart, his limbs one by one dropping to the ground in front of him.  “NO!  No, no, no, let me go, LET ME –”

“He’s made his choice,” Thornton interrupted with a shake of his head.  “And you have a job to finish in any case.  One thing at a time, Ryan.”

“Do you have to go and make this feel like work, Dad?” Ryan teased as Barclay shuddered at Thornton’s comment.  “Anyway.  Here.”  With no further warning, he pushed Barclay forward, sending him stumbling into the grip of Thornton’s guards.

Either because of the blood loss or because he’d screamed himself raw, the Director had gone quiet other than letting out low whimpers.  As Ryan approached, though, he resumed his pointless struggling, his one remaining limb useless in allowing him to escape.  With the rest of the room gone silent, Barclay could hear his defeated words, let out between painful, ragged breaths.  “Get it over with, you freak.  And then – !” The Director gasped in pain.  “And then let Clay go, he did nothing!”

“You’ve got that right,” Ryan said with a vicious grin at Barclay as tears streamed down the younger man’s face.  “So, what do you say, Fletcher?  Should I make it quick for him so I can start on you, or should I have some more fun here?”

Barclay shook his head as he mutely sobbed, squeezing his eyes shut to get both the Director’s mangled body and Ryan’s knowing, contemptuous grin out of his sight.

“Oops, you broke the rules there, Fletcher.  Not supposed to look away, remember?  Guess I get to choose, then.”  Ryan picked the Director up by his ankle, holding him up high enough to look him in the eyes.  “You really should’ve chosen a better assistant, man,” he said with a shake of his head.

He then tore another strained shriek out of the Director along with his last leg before dropping the helpless torso of a man to the ground, with an air of being disappointed at having broken his favorite new toy.  Ryan shrugged at the onlookers and started to walk away, only to abruptly turn back and make a running start, giving the Director’s head a vicious kick that severed it from his body with a sickening snap and sent it into the crowd of his former victims.

Barclay was helplessly dry-retching at the corpse now twitching lifelessly mere feet away from him.  The arms holding him let him go, and he collapsed into a heap on the floor, surrounded and overwhelmed by voices.

“John, what was –”

“Good on you, getting an eyeball!”

“ – disappeared my wife, Paul, they –”

“Get a knife, I want an ear.”

“ – gonna be sick…” The sound of vomiting.

“ – will you do with the boy, then?”

“He’s hardly a boy.  You don’t need to worry –”

Blood stained Barclay’s shirt as he wrapped his arms tightly around something.  It had been thrown at him, or maybe he’d crawled over to it.  He’d already forgotten; it hardly mattered.

“Should we take the arm from him, sir?” a voice standing over him called out.

“Get the rest of the body.  We’ll bring them back to the cell with him.”

Barclay clung for dear life to what he now felt to be Richardson’s mutilated hand, squeezing his eyes tightly shut as a guard grabbed him by the hair and yanked him hard toward the door.  He squealed and thrashed in pain, but his mind was somewhere else, or trying to get there.

In the end, it went blank.  He barely registered being thrown roughly back into his cell - only enough to crawl onto what was supposed to pass for a cot and curl in tightly around the severed arm, still oozing blood.

He didn’t know how long it had been by the time the door opened again, letting Thornton in to loom over him.  He didn’t dare move.

“What a mess,” Thornton said disgustedly, stepping on something laying on the floor with a crack and a squelch.  “And here you are doing nothing about it.”  He walked over and scruffed Barclay by the neck, holding him face down over the side of the cot so he could see.

The Director.  Or at least what remained of him.  Three limbs, stomped and bent all to hell.  A torso with ribs poking out through the bloodied remains of clothing.  And a head torn and beaten and mutilated beyond all recognition if Barclay hadn’t known what had happened to him.

Barclay abruptly started dry-retching again, his shaking arms finally letting go of his macabre comfort object.

Thornton’s hand squeezed tighter around the back of Barclay’s throat, turning his retching into struggling gasps.  “Pathetic,” he sneered, and tossed Barclay face first onto the hard floor.  A beat later, he dropped a bag in front of Barclay.  “I’ll give you three days to clean him up and put him back together,” Thornton said as Barclay shakily emptied the bag to find needles, thread, water bottles, glue, and a handful of other supplies that were hardly up to the task.  “The least you can do is allow him a good burial.”

I couldn’t do anything! Barclay wanted to shout.  You would’ve killed him anyways, and then me…!

He looked at the pack of needles for a long moment.

Maybe I should just…

“If you try to use those for anything other than their intended purpose, Fletcher, I will know,” Thornton cut in as if reading his thoughts.  “There are much more creative things I could do with a corpse.”

Barclay nodded, very much not wanting to know what they were.  “Y-yes sir,” he answered meekly.

Thornton’s lip curled in further disgust at this servile display, and he kicked him hard to the face.  Blood gushed from Barclay’s nose, and his voice was almost entirely too weak to be heard over the crack of breaking bone.

“Get to work.”

He couldn’t, not for the first two days.  Finally, he summoned the nerve to creep up to the body, arrange its dismembered pieces, set out the equipment with shaking hands, and then…  Where was he even supposed to start?!  Everything was slick with blood; the glue held the torn skin together for a matter of seconds before it tore open again.  Trying to sew the Director’s body back together was hardly more successful; even if he had any real experience working with a needle and thread, he could barely see what he was doing in the darkness.

He could only guess that he was running up against the deadline at a certain point, making him desperate enough to do whatever small amount he could for his murdered mentor.  Still, it seemed like he’d spent days making large, choppy stitches and applying thick layers of glue in some small hope of making the Director recognizable again.

The result was, if anything, more horrifying than the dismembered remains had been.

“You never fail to disappoint me, Fletcher,” Thornton said as he picked up Barclay’s best attempt, only to abruptly drop it to the floor.  The glued-on head lolled to the side and broke off halfway.  The more damaged arm flopped to the side, revealing that Barclay had sewn it on backward in his haste.  Barclay let out a sob.  

His eyes went wide, though, as Thornton’s two favorite guards stepped in with hands full of trash bags.

Thornton nodded to them.

“NO!” Barclay screamed, jumping from the cot and landing on the Director’s remains.  One of the two men chortled as he lay face down and trembling in the mess of decomposing flesh. “No, don’t, don’t, DON’T, I tried my best, I tried… sir,” Barclay begged, of Thornton, of the guard standing above him, of the Director’s ghost, he wasn’t sure which.

The man who had laughed grabbed him by the ankle and hauled him away despite his scrabbling hands, and he watched helplessly as Thornton’s other goon scooped up the crumbling body and dumped it piecemeal into the various bags with a look of disgust.

“Consider yourself lucky, kid,” the man restraining him threatened.  “We could throw you into the incinerator with him.  Keep making a pain in the ass of yourself, and maybe we will.”

Barclay froze up, his blood running cold.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Thornton said, not even looking in his direction.  “The dumpster will work perfectly fine.”

“No…. you said… you said you were going to give him a real burial!” Barclay yelled in despair.

“Well, you certainly fucked up that chance,” Thornton said dismissively.  “If nothing else, you gave Dave exactly what he deserved.”

With that, he walked out of the cell with a wave to his men, the first of whom flung Barclay against the wall with another short laugh.

Barclay didn’t dare move until the door slammed behind them, and even then he only slowly curled his aching body into a ball.  He tried not to think about how long he’d be here, or for what purposes.  There was no point, where no one would be coming to get him this time.

His nails dug into his knees until they drew blood.  It ran down to the cell floor, mixing with the tears that wouldn’t stop flowing.

–

It had been two months, and Paul was having the same damn dream again.  The one where John’s son had…

Where Dave had been…

Dave’s eyes had been so desperate, and so unbearably reproachful.

But worse was the boy.

No, not a boy, just like John had said.  Barclay Fletcher had killed subjects.  Tortured them.  Including the now-missing Mrs. Thornton.

Still, he hadn’t disappeared her.  That had been Paul’s own doing.

It was too late to confess it now, he told himself.  It wouldn’t bring Dave back even if he wanted to, and it was probably too late to save Fletcher too.  And besides.

“Paul?” his wife asked drowsily, turning over to face him with a look of concern.  “Is everything alright?”

He couldn’t let that happen to him.

“You know you can tell me,” she tried to reassure him.

For her sake, he told himself.

“I’m fine,” he told her, sinking back into his comfortable bed and disturbed dreams.

--

Based on an in-person roleplay scene between @skinofafish and I. Barclay Fletcher and Paul Waldrop are my characters. John, Jinn, and Ryan Thornton along with David Richardson are @skinofafish's characters.

--

Taglist:

@whumpsday / @skinofafish

@badthingshappenbingo

[atticfish]

The more I think about it, the more I think that maybe the Huntsman killed Ylfa's grandmother, and further, that Ylfa's grandmother was the werewolf. In many versions of the story, Little Red meets a wolf and trusts to reveal where in the woods she's headed -- at which point the wolf beats her to her grandmother's cottage, eats the grandmother, dons her clothing and takes her identity. But this Little Red seems a bit world-weary even before she gets wolfed, and Emily specifically places emphasis on Ylfa having unwavering respect and loyalty for authority figures. She might not trust any old wolf, but she would trust the Huntsman.

As for Getting Wolfed, either the Huntsman was a werewolf (he could even in some ways be a form of the Wolf, as both deal in Death, and both kill to eat), Ylfa's grandmother was a werewolf (Ylfa's lycanthropy being genetic in the context of Little Red Riding Hood as a story about coming of age would be a super interesting take imo; also, would satisfy well with the deliberate parallels drawn between Ylfa and her grandmother), or perhaps the Wolf gifted Ylfa her lycanthropy by other means (per se, not as a werewolf but as a spirit of Death).

[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.

[damsel-get-your-gun]

oh

...

bap

there’s blood on your hand.

[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

[pinkeoni]

Oh. “Zombie Boy” is a homophobic nickname

I guess this should’ve been pretty obvious. I mean, Will is a confirmed gay character, who is walking around town and having a mean nickname constantly hurled at him. Clearly there is some queercoding in that.

But does that mean that the nickname is homophobic in universe? If that were the case, why not just call him homophobic slurs in the first place?

The nickname Zombie Boy always was kind of strange to me as well. Why make fun of a kid for coming back to life? Wouldn’t that be a cool thing? Maybe it’s a little odd, but why be so mean about it?

Unless it’s not the only thing they’re making fun of him for

TW for discussion of rape below cut

To understand the intent behind the Zombie Boy nickname, we need to go back to Will’s dissapearance in season one. Our boy Troy lays it out pretty plainly what everyone in town thinks happened to Will.

Not just that Will was killed, but clarified as “killed by some other queer.” The emphasis on sexuality adding an implication to his statement. What Troy is really trying to say is that Will was raped and then killed by a gay man, otherwise why bring up sexuality at all?

And to be fair to Troy, that is kind of what happened.

But of course the town doesn’t know this. The story that was told is that Will only got lost in the woods. That was the story published in the Hawkins Post, so that’s what everyone believes, right?

This is the version of events that Lucas tells Max, and he is immediately met with skepticism from her. Lucas then tells Max not to ask Will about it because he’s very sensitive about it.

I’m not saying that the town believes that there is something supernatural going on, but rather I’m thinking that the people of Hawkins at least suspect that there is something about Will’s disappearance that is not being talked about openly. Let’s not forget that the “Zombie Boy” note that Will receives in his locker is a desecration of the news article sharing his story.

So here’s what the town initially believed happened: Will was kidnapped and raped by a gay man before being thrown into the quarry.

And here’s what the town knows: Will went missing and was found in the woods before being hospitalized. He is very sensitive about the topic and doesn’t like to talk about it. After being released from the hospital, he is now occasionally pulled out of school early for doctor’s appointments—

Oh.

I mean, it is any coincidence that all of this is happening while Reagan’s name is plastered all over town? Is it just a coincidence that the anniversary of Will’s disappearance falls right on Reagan’s reelection day?

And just to cut through all the shit and stop being vague, I’m talking about the AIDS epidemic of the 80’s, and yes I think that part of the town believes that Will has it.

I recently read a post from @emblazons that struck me with just how laden the AIDS metaphor is in season. To quote the post as best I can, there is something described like a disease attacking Will’s body and slowly killing him, and the Reagan administration government scientists are trying their best to prevent the truth from spreading and view the possible death of a queer person as a non-issue.

Starting to think about it through this lens, a “zombie” is the perfect metaphor for how Hawkins now views Will. He isn’t technically dead, but they suspect he has a disease with an incredibly low life-expectancy at the time, so he’s essentially a walking corpse.

The nickname doesn’t start and end at simply making fun of Will for having a disease. What do zombies do? They try to bite and turn other people into zombies.

The town doesn’t just see Will as someone who has been infected by someone else with an illness, but as someone who has been infected and is going to spread his illness around.

The rhetoric regarding queers as people who spread disease and kill continues in season 4, when we see Eddie reading the article that links sodomy with satanic practices, violence and murder. We then go on to see the entire town blame Eddie and his group of “satanic” outcasts for spreading death in the town. This attitude is certainly not lost on Hawkins, and the show doesn’t shy away from showing it.

The way that characters in the show use and react to Zombie Boy match this as well. There is a certain level of vitriol that comes with Zombie Boy, and the nickname is what leads Jonathan and Will into their extremely coded conversation about being a freak.

If Zombie Boy is an intentionally homophobic nickname, then does that mean that in this scene she's actually saying...?

So I actually don’t think that Snowball Girl is being intentionally homophobic here (although, saying what is essentially “Hey f*****, wanna dance?” is still CRAZY)

I think it’s less realistic if the entire town is in on this conspiracy and more believable if say, the nickname was started intentionally as a homophobic jab by some of the townsfolk, but is ambiguous enough to be picked up by more naïve kids like Snowball Girl who may not realize the actual meaning behind it. It may seem like it’s only about his ressurection on the surface, but when you peel back the layers you see just how offensive it really is.

Using a vague nickname is also very intentional by the Duffers as well. If they wanted to be subtle about Will’s sexuality before later confirming it, then having a more ambiguous moniker rather than just having the entire town call him an evil queer.

Even if the town really is just making fun of him for coming back to life and nothing else, and there isn’t actually this rampant rumor spreading across Hawkins about Will spreading disease, the heavy coding and intention from the writers is still be there.

[artyandink]

amoralism | four

Summary: You and Dean Winchester are the top agents from Major Crimes. You’re also assigned as partners on the same case- a crime syndicate is running loose and buying out most of downtown New York. He hates you cause you hate him. You hate him cause you think he got in his position with his daddy’s influence. But this case is personal to one of you more than the other- and you may be getting too personal for comfort.

TW: So much sexual tension it’s illegal, Agent Dean Winchester (yes, he’s a warning in itself), mention of murder, Knights of Hell but they’re just murderous humans, fantasising, a mole in the FBI, thigh riding, Sam being the best friend everyone needed but no one asked for, failed professionalism, description of gore, torture and body desecration, inaccurate description of the FBI but we do it for the plot, Bela Talbot (she’s also a warning, yes), fantasies of seduction

Song Inspo: Liar by Camila Cabello

SERIES MASTERLIST

archaism

A knock on your door had you looking up from your desk, from the notes you were taking on the video found on the necklace’s hard drive. The only face you could see on that necklace was Abaddon’s, which did give you the warrant to put her in the Florence Supermax, which honestly didn’t feel like enough when your own body felt like it was being slashed and burned and disembowelled in tandem with this poor investment banker.

Didn’t help that she took a hatchet to the body even after the life left him.

“Come in.” You sighed, rubbing your eyes. And in came… “Ah.” Yet another tired rub of your forehead. “Trainee Agents Tran and Harvelle. Come in.” You gestured for them to enter, wishing you were also a trainee agent.

It was so much more simple back in those days. Just getting coffee for the superiors. Just some damn coffee. Not being caught in a web of sexual tension, organised crime and some really nasty crap.

“How can I help you?” You asked, feigning genuine interest when you actually wanted to hurl from the videos you’d been watching.

“We wanted to get an update on the Knights of Hell case.” Tran got out, fiddling with his fingers. Suck ups, great. “For, uh, Agent Nick Garrison.” You rolled your eyes.

Nick.

He’d come off fresh from the murder of his wife and baby, and it was bloody. He’d been trying to take cases, but Director Singer kept on insisting he take the desk job.

“Did he tell you he was working the case?” You clasped your hands in front of you, and you cut them off before they could start stammering. “No, I can’t give any information if you’re not working the case. It’s classified information, and Director Singer’s made that clear. I don’t wanna have to report to HR about breaching jurisdiction.”

“No, ma’am.” Harvelle bowed her head, then realised she wasn’t bowing to a queen and grabbed Tran’s hand, dragging him out. You groaned, closing your eyes and rubbing your forehead.

“That’s it. Take what you need.” Dean muttered, your back against his chest, legs spread and held in place by one hand gripping your thigh. Your head fell back against his shoulder, a myriad of sounds leaving your parted lips and slack jaw from his three fingers pumping in and out of your pussy. Stretching you. Breaking you. Wrecking you. Making you rock your hips in tandem with his movements and getting much needed friction on your clit from the rough palm of his hand. “Workin’ so hard, baby. I’m gonna release all your stress. Leave you so relaxed.”

God, you had half a mind to start touching yourself in the office to take the edge off. Right under your desk.

You’d do it. Damn the code of conduct.

“I need a change of panties.” You muttered, done with... “Everything else in my life, while I’m at it.”

“Five minutes, sweetheart. To take the edge off.”

Damn you for being an ass kisser. You could have taken the edge off with Dean Winchester.

Instead you’re here. At a desk. Watching someone be tortured to death and their corpse disembowelled.

”You were left alone? With a shirtless Dean Winchester?” Andréa gasped, sipping a tall glass of wine, her lips stained red from it. “Details. Now.”

You swallowed, clearing your throat. “Dré, I don’t think there’s anything to tell-”

“Yes. There is.” She raised her eyebrows pointedly at you. “Either he railed you nasty, or you pulled the usual professionalism card but you still banged and now you’re fearful for your job.”

“I’m still fearful for my job, railing or not.” You scoffed lightly, taking a long sip of your own wine and holding your glass out for another. “Sorry to disappoint, Dré, but… no. Nothing happened.”

“WHAT?!” Andréa slammed down her wine glass. Eyes wide, auburn hair only slightly out of place. Jesus, she’s shook.

“I know!” You raised your hands in surrender, wine slopping onto the floor. You carefully put it aside; you might be getting a little tipsy with how much you drank trying to recover from the memory. “Look, it happened like I told you; Dean pulled me in, told me to keep my eyes on him… and then his phone rang. His dad called him, and he took the call.”

“I want to bust John Winchester’s balls.” She muttered.

“Classy.”

“Do you think I care about class? I care about whether or not you can walk straight, and right now you should be wobbling from side to side, honey.” She took a very pointed sip of wine.

You sighed with a roll of your eyes, however affectionate it was. “That’s a very interesting notion.”

“It’s Dean Winchester!”

“I’m painfully aware that it is.”

You walked into Dean’s office to find him nursing a bloody temple with a sterilising cloth, which had you raising an eyebrow. You didn’t peg Dean for the working hard type, more like the hardly working. Unless you counted when he was in bed with a woman. Still hot.

And both of your minds switching back to the night where Dean had you in his arms, his whiskey-tainted breath fanning over your lips. Fingers that were tapping the desk were previously curled around your chin, gravelly voice telling- ordering you to keep your eyes on him and by God, you’d say yes sir if he hadn’t taken your ability to speak words with those piercing green eyes. And he wasn’t even your superior.

“Well, don’t you look super.” You drawled sarcastically, throwing down a file on his desk. Eyes moving down to the hands which had held you in place. Fingers that had gripped your chin in a way that almost made your knees buckle and hands fly to undo the drawstring of his sweatpants.

“Knock knock - come in - and yeah, I do look handsome.” Dean responded dryly, but gave you a smirk/grin, a click of his tongue and a wink that had no right giving you that large of a needy jolt through your cunt, soaking your panties instantly. Again.

You cursed yourself for being an ass kisser. Again. When there was a perfectly good cock there that you could be riding.

“I was trying to figure out information on the Abaddon case, see if we could get some of her buddies’ names.” Dean shrugged, swiping his bottom lip with his thumb. “Came out with nada and a cheap shot to the head.”

You cleared your throat, willing yourself to stop feeling so desperate. You were better than this. No you weren’t, but you weren’t gonna admit that aloud. “Director Singer wanted us to check this out. Probably after your failed, sorry ass attempt to find answers.” You watched him open the file, turning the page with a lick of his finger. Had it been anyone else, you would have internally cringed.

But no, it’s Dean Winchester. You wanted to be his index finger.

“Since we’re doing this off books, we have to arrange off book methods.” You rubbed your neck. “Bela Talbot, she’s a freelancer. Occasionally thieves - at least, that’s theory because we’ve never been able to prove it. But Director Singer’s booked us a five star room and an appointment so we can find out what she knows, how she knows it and follow that lead.”

“You’re more snappy than usual, sweetheart.” Dean smirked, mossy eyes trailing- no, roving down- not even that; he was undressing you with his eyes.

And he didn’t miss the way your jaw ticked.

Sign number one.

How your eyes darted from him to the files to the random objects like you wanted to throw something.

Sign number two.

How you occasionally prodded your cheek with your tongue as if you had a Spanish insult that would definitely condemn someone’s mother to hell on the tip of it.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, was sign number three.

Dean Winchester had more than a GED and a give ‘em hell attitude. He had a college degree in criminology, a while spent in the academy and a penchant for figuring out when- “You’re stressed.” He muttered smoothly, and he had an inkling of why. He took hold of your wrist, and next thing you knew, you were pulled to his lap, straddling his thigh. Your heeled feet on either side. And clothed pussy right on powerful muscle.

Oh, boy.

“We haven’t talked about it.” Dean muttered, his eyes tracing your face (and dipping to check your blouse’s neckline, and it did not disappoint), calculating his next move, his hand splayed out on your lower back. “I know you better than you think. And you… are thinking about it.”

“I’m n-not.” You responded quickly and rather pathetically, especially as your words were negated by a whimper as his hand on your lower back slid down, down, down, cupping your ass, squeezing just right and using the purchase to pull you so your chest was flush against his. His nose bumping yours. The scent of a breath mint on your lips instead of whiskey.

Gee, the déjà vu was potent. When could you have possibly been in this situation before, hm? Totally not a few days ago. And five years before that.

“So, you don’t wanna talk about it.” He chuckled, tongue darting out to wet his lips as he looked you over- nope, banging you with his eyes this time. You could see it. He had you bent over the desk, railing the living daylights out of you with a hand over your mouth. “Let’s do about it.”

You swallowed, not protesting even as his fingers tangled in your hair. “That-That’s grammatically incorrect-”

His lips - god, his pillowy, sinful, criminal lips - crashed down onto yours, brow furrowed in concentration as the common sense went out of you.

Dean definitely had eaten a breath mint, and you could taste the coffee remnants on him. A kiss that was no less than filthy, needy and wanting. Smacking of lips on lips at a high frequency and temperature shooting far above the boiling point. Your hand threading in his hair. Other hand fisting the back of his shirt. His cologne your personally crafted aphrodisiac.

Dean was too far gone to care that anyone could walk in. His hand was gripping the soft strands of your hair in between his fingers, guiding your head how he liked it. Relishing your tinted, strawberry flavoured lip balm and how it flooded his tongue. Your perfume sending his hormones skyrocketing and making him zero in on you. Only you, always you. He’d missed out on his treasure all these goddamned five years.

Dean’s tongue licked at the seam of your swollen lips, demanding entrance, which you fought back and denied from him. Good that he’s skilled in getting what he wanted, because it didn’t take long to get you to allow him that access.

His hand came down in a sharp smack on your ass, which had a gasp falling from your lips which he caught with his own. Keeping both parted as his tongue tasted the jam and toast on yours, coaxing it into his mouth so he could suck on it and cloud your mind more than it already was fogged up.

“That’s it, open up for me.” Dean groaned into your mouth, pulling your kiss-swollen lips more apart with his thumb on your bottom lip. You felt his hand leave your ass, air hitting your previously skirt covered thighs and something sliding down your legs but you didn’t care when Dean was robbing you of professionalism.

Doing a thing with his tongue and teeth that had you throbbing and needy for him. Yeah, the Code of Conduct can go to hell.

His hand found home on your ass again, and just experimentally dragged you down and forward, drawn out and hard on the taut, deliciously clad muscle of his thigh.

Clit. Friction. Uh- pussy. Dripping.

Mind. Blown.

You had to actively pull him to you, lips more in a collision than a kiss to muffle the drawn out moan that came from your lips and those that spilled after while he simply hummed, grinding you on his thigh again and again until you were kissing him silly as well as rutting on his thigh like a desperate, horny teenager.

Not that either of you minded.

“Look so pretty, ridin’ my thigh.” Dean chuckled between hungry, heavenly kisses, now taking handfuls of your tit from shoving his hand (in a hot way) down the neckline of your blouse and rubbing your nipple over your bra with precise circles designed to make you go mad all while groping the flesh. “Makes a guy wonder how you’ll ride his co-o-oh, Jesus Christ, baby.”

For context, in retaliation, you’d started palming him over his slacks, grinding the heel of your palm in a way that had him rolling his hips forward so his cock could meet your hand for the first time ever through two thin barriers.

The slow movement of your hand and your hips that were dragging over his slacks a personified oxymoron of the way your lips would devour Dean’s and vice versa over and over again.

Every movement of yours synced to the way he’d toy with your tits and his hand would knead your ass under skilled goddamn fingers.

Swallowing every moan like second nature.

He definitely had some kind of qualification in the female body.

“Woah.” And both of you pulling away to see Sam at the door. Which incited pure chaos.

You jumping up. Fixing your skirt, your hair (your kiss-swollen lips were a gone case) as Dean manoeuvred his leg so you couldn’t see the obvious wet patch on his slacks.

Wet patches, if you count the pre-come stain that leaked through.

Ah, well, at least he’d pocketed your soaked panties. For… research purposes.

“Nothing’s happened.” Dean shrugged, trying to signal to Sam as if to say no, he did not want the news of him making out with his case co-head in his office, in FBI headquarters in DC.

Your mind was in a tizzy, especially as you hurried off before you could shake hands with embarrassment.

“I don’t know whether to say ‘finally’, ‘what the hell’ or bleach my eyes out.” Sam said to Dean with a light chuckle, folding his arms.

“How about you shut your mouth?” He scoffed back.

“I can’t just unsee that-”

“You were told to shut your mouth, not your eyes.” Dean grinned as if nothing was wrong, because nothing was wrong. That could just be one of his fantasies.

You were thinking the same thing. It could just be a vivid daydream. Or even a dream that you’ll wake up from at any moment.

But then Dean saw the wet patch on his slacks again. The soaked panties that he’d stolen off you and you’d let him. His lips were swollen and still buzzing from the heated sensations, ego on an all time high from how many moans he’d ripped from you even though he’d done so little. If this is what he’d waited for all this time - for five years - the wait was damn worth it.

You could still feel Dean’s hands groping at you as if he had a degree in your body. His harsh breath against yours. Lips bruising as they met over and over again— his thigh pressed between yours.

Your thighs rubbed together and- god damn, he’d stolen your panties. You weren’t even mad at him for it.

You were reeling from the - ahem - make out session display of professionalism. And Dean wasn’t making it any degree better.

“So, we’re not gonna talk about it?” He scoffed, folding his arms and quirking an eyebrow. “Five years, the time we actually break the Code of Conduct and we’re not gonna say a word of what went down?”

You gestured to him. “My point. We broke the Code of Conduct. Hell, we torched it!”

“It was just making out.”

“In your office.”

“Look,” Dean chuckled and ran his hand through his hair, “it ain’t my fault that your gorgeous ass is attracted to me. And it ain’t your fault that my handsome ass… is attracted to you. It’s a sexual thing.”

“It’s a sexual thing.” You repeated quietly, which didn’t help things, but hey- it’s the best he can do. “You have no regard for your job’s integrity.”

“You’re so uptight all the time.”

“And it’s better to be really damn loose?” Dean Winchester made your pussy drip leg bounce on the ball of your foot. It was a nervous tick. Or an angry tick. But you knew that you wanted to curse his bloodline in Spanish.

He could only offer you a scoff. “You know, this tough girl act is really unbecoming.”

“This tough boy act doesn’t cut you any favours.”

“Some may say it’s sexy.” A brunette slid into the seat next to him. Hair pulled up into a ponytail and threaded through a baseball cap that was pulled low over her brow- no doubt for disguise. Poorly orchestrated disguise, and Director Singer said she was a professional. Smug smile and manicured nails painted an eyebrow raising shade of rouge while she smelled strongly of Chanel.

Extending said manicured hand daintily towards Dean. “Bela Talbot.” She purred, playing up a sultry smile. “I’m your freelancer.”

“That Chanel or is it just me?” Dean shot back with a raise of his eyebrow. How did he know? He knew the notes of that perfume collection cause you’d worn it when you… made out with him and rode his thigh. Ahem.

“I’m a freelancer, but I’m not a savage. I indulge.” Bela replied before turning back to you and sliding a paper. “Knights of Hell. Hard bunch to track down, but I can tell you who they are and what they do. They’re like mercenaries. A secret service for an underground mafia ring. If you want a bloody death, the big boss will ring them up and then it’s bye-bye within a few hours. They play it like a game too. Whoever’s skill set meets the quota, that’s who they send out.”

“Abaddon.” You frowned, clasping your hands on the table. “Why was she sent out to that bank?”

“She plays with her food before she eats it.” Bela sighed, shaking her head. “Invades the mind of her enemy. If you don’t catch on quick enough, she doesn’t sing your tune, you sing hers. Like she’s Bach and you’re just his orchestra.”

“That’s colourful.” Dean muttered, sipping his coffee. “Who is this guy we’re about to talk to, by the way?” He was watching Bela carefully for any signs of deception.

Any at all and he had cuffs attached to his belt.

“His codename’s Cain.” Bela checked her nails with a pout. “But he was previously known as William Abernathy. He was the first Knight of Hell. For initiation he was made to kill his brother Cole Abernathy and had been trying to exit the gang since. Only got out a few months ago.”

‘Cain’ himself was a grumpy-ass man who seemed to lounge with bottles of beer on the best days and hard vodka on the worst. He had pictures of who seemed to be Neil, his brother, and another woman. Young. Beautiful, with an innocent smile on her face.

You wondered if she had known what William had done.

You watched Cain sit down with a gruff grunt, and

“Being a Knight of Hell makes you bitter.” He swept a thumb over his bottom lip, scoffing and shaking his head slowly. “You do horrible things. To innocent people, too. Most of us enjoyed it. I didn’t. That’s why I ran.”

You rubbed your cheek, sharing a look with Dean, who looked both incredibly concerned and curious. Not only was this syndicate dangerous, they took inspiration off Bible lore, which was how they contracted their code names.

“And your code name was Cain?” You asked, gesturing to him with a raise of your eyebrow. “As in… Cain and Abel? And your real name is William Abernathy?”

“Abel was my brother’s supposed ‘codename’.” William, previously ‘Cain’, deadpanned, sipping some bourbon with a blank expression. “Gave it after his death. Thought it was funny. They thought the same for my beautiful Collette too.”

“Collette?” Dean pointed to a photo, of a smiling woman in Cain’s arms. In a wedding dress, looking as if all the problems were gone. “This her?”

“That’s her.” Cain nodded, his voice wavering a bit. “She looked every bit as beautiful on our wedding day even when she died. Bloody, but so beautiful. She still smiled even then.”

“I’m sorry, Mr Abernathy.” You gave him a look of sympathy, taking a deep breath. “For your loss. Could you give us the names of the other Knights?”

Cain nodded. “I’ll do it. I’ve give you them all.”

“You run the risk of being hunted down.” Dean added quickly. “We can place you under witness protection.”

“Witness protection can’t do crap.” Cain scoffed, a cynical bark of laughter leaving him. “It'll end how it always does. A blaze of glory and no survivors."

You could easily see the truth. You saw it in his body language; he wasn't defeated, he was tired. Tired of fighting rather than losing. Cain was a shell. Empty.

"You want them to find you." You murmured, running a hand through your hair in partial disbelief. "You want to die."

Cain nodded, pointing a gnarled finger at you with a nod, writing a list of names down on a sheet of paper before handing them to you. "You're good, Agent." He sniffed, averting his eyes, which welled up. "First they took Neil. Then my darling Collette. That Hell took everything from me. Might as well let them finish the job."

"No, hold on." Dean stepped in with a wave of his hand. "We have to take you into witness protection, to testify."

A violent shaking of your head put him off and made him worry that you were having an aneurism. "We can't. Code of Conduct, Article 53, Section A, Subsection Alpha, line 5, written in '79 after the assassination of Jakob Brierkevald on his transportation to unwillingly testify against Russia. Unless given autonomous permission, law enforcement and/or federal authorities do not have the jurisdiction to detain the subject to testify in court, which directly relates to the Treaty for Human rights... even if it concerns national safety."

Dean stared at you as if you'd grown three heads. "Did you swallow the textbook?!"

"You didn't?"

“A spot of advice.” Cain spoke up gruffly, looking between the two of you. “Have angry sex. That could solve everything.”

“No!” You threw your hands up, then turned to Dean. “He basically signed a DNR for himself by saying that. We can’t do anything.”

“Isn’t there some kind of overrule clause?” Dean asked, folding his arms. “Rack that pretty head.”

“Not that I know of.” You shrugged. “It could be in some weird ass phrasing but if the subject decides, that’s final.”

“Son of a-”

“We’re federal agents, keep it together!”

“Hey, Bela.” You sighed, pacing slowly as you talked. “Thanks for the tip. We got a lot more to go off now, and turns out you weren’t as slimy as the FBI warned us you were.”

“Charming.” Bela quipped, hands in her jacket pocket with a smile, then she chuckled. “Happy to help. The Knights of Hell should be taken down a peg or two. Who better than the Fed’s finest agents?” Her eyes travelled to Dean tap dancing for fun a little way away, then back to you in amusement. “Or finest.”

“Yeah, he’s not the most professional one out there.” You chuckled, shaking your head.

"I didn't catch the traditionalist aspect from him." She shook her head, then caught how you were looking at Dean.

That was the most potent and obvious eye bang she'd ever seen.

"No, he's- ay, dios mío." The reason for your speech cutting off was Dean's succumbing to the heat and pouring a whole damn water bottle's contents over his face, making his shirt cling to his chest and wavering your focus.

One word. Muscle.

"Word of advice." Bela whispered in your ear. "You two really should have angry sex."

NEXT UP:

“Mom.” You painfully kept your voice level. Not wanting to raise your voice at your own mother, because even if she was a nasty piece of work - in your eyes - she still carried you for nine months. “This is unreasonable.”

Understatement of the Year award goes to you. Hopefully, also the Daughter and Sister of the Year awards too.

“What I do in my household is none of your business, niña!” Eleanor snapped back, her fingers too for emphasis. You felt familiar anger bubbling, but you told it not today.

You scoffed at the notion, though, rubbing Cassie’s shoulder. “You’re practically starving her!” Still shoving down unadulterated fury. “And pressuring her to have kids. Hell, I haven’t. I’m not even married.”

“You should be!” She responded quickly. Does this lady not get the point? “You should be married, bringing honour to your family.”

“You’re delusional.”

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To be added to any character’s taglist of mine, find my form on my master list.

Like what I’ve written? Let me know!

Why do we reblog/send in asks with feedback?

This tends to make the author more invested in writing their own series.

If they think ‘hey, people actually like what I’ve written and are writing small paragraphs/quoting my story and writing lengthy paragraphs on how they feel’ then they’re more likely to put more fics and chapters out for you.

I’d really appreciate it if y’all do that and the same goes for any other writer on here. Reblogs are worth a lot more than likes on here!

Anyone who does reblog/send me an ask with your thoughts, I can give you a shout out and/or a surprise profile pic design!

[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

[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 ? 🧍

[guardian-of-da-gay]

It's Not Your Fault

Sequel to You're Still Alive in My Mind

Read on Ao3

For Whumptober 2024 Prompt 20: "It's not your fault."

tw: depression, repression, desecration of corpses, suicidal thoughts

“It’s not your fault.”

That’s what the Wachowskis kept telling him.  What Wade said every time they caught a glimpse of the destruction.  It was that other echidna.  He’d made Knuckles do those things.  Knuckles wouldn’t have hurt anyone, wouldn’t have destroyed those towns, wouldn’t have attacked his friends and family.

The men from G.U.N. didn’t tell him it wasn’t his fault.  They asked .  Did he remember?  Did he mean to?  How did he feel about it?  Did he regret it?  Did he feel guilt? Remorse?

Knuckles told them nothing.

He remembered.  But it was like a dream.  Everything had made sense at the moment, but now it didn’t.  He remembered doing those things.  He remembered doing them and being happy about it.  Happier than he had ever been before.  Probably happier than he would ever be again.  But he didn’t know why. 

He’d found satisfaction in vengeance before, but never joy in wanton destruction.  Victory felt good, but violence and death were practical and impersonal.  He didn’t delight in them.

So yes, he remembered doing those things.  He had meant to at the time.  He had been happy to do them then.  Now he wasn’t.  He didn’t feel anything.  Everyone else was expecting regret, guilt, and remorse, but Knuckles felt nothing.  Absolutely nothing at all.  Just tired.

He’d felt something briefly.  When he first woke, he thought he was having a nightmare.  He was the last of his kind.  All his family, tribe, species were dead.  Their rotted corpses lay strewn out as far as the eye could see.  Knuckles had felt so much he could barely breathe.  He’d squeezed his eyes shut and prayed he could wake up from this horrible dream.

Wade found him.  He hugged Knuckles and told him everything would be okay now.  The nightmare was over.

Knuckles believed him so he opened his eyes.  But the nightmare wasn’t over.  It was just real-life now.  His people were all dead.  Their corpses had been used by the only other surviving echidna for his own ends.  That echidna was dead now too.  And strangers were everywhere, collecting his people’s bodies like they were scraps of trash on the side of the road.

By the time they reached Wade’s car, Knuckles stopped feeling.  They were still there, locked behind a dam.  If he released them, he would drown.  Talking chipped away at that dam, so he didn’t.  The Wachowskis greeted him, but he didn’t know what to do with their happiness.  He had none left in him.  He let them hug and fuss, but he had nothing to give back.  They mistook his silence for guilt, and so they kept reminding him: “It’s not your fault.”

They couldn’t comprehend that he might be grieving.  That he’d lost his people for the second time and now their bodies were in the hands of strangers.  Were they taking care of them?  What if their masks fell off or their beads snapped or their armor slid off their bones?  They needed those in the afterlife!  Would they put them back on the right person?  Would they pick them up?  Would they care?

The answer was no, of course.  People either hated echidna or didn’t care about them at all.  And most of them had no personal reason to feel that way.  These humans did.

So Knuckles wasn’t surprised when Commander Walters informed them his people were going to be burned.

The Wachowskis had a lot to say to this announcement, but he could scarcely hear it over the roaring in his ears.  Tom and Maddie sat on one side of him.  Sonic and Tails were on the other.

Knuckles stared down at his fists.  His gloves were frayed now.

“... should be buried in their people’s customs.”

“...quick disposal.”

“This isn’t up for discussion.”

“Is the US government really going to…?”

“...welcome to create a change.org petition….”

“Oh, you did not–”

“These are aliens, Mrs. Wachowski–.”

“Knuckles.”  Maddie turned to him so suddenly that Knuckles started.  He looked up into her angry face.  “What do you want?”

Commander Walters raised a hand to interrupt and Maddie shot him a venomous glare and held up one finger.  Her audacity shocked him into silence.

“What do you want, Knuckles?”  Maddie asked, more gently.

Knuckles wanted to disappear.

“Is cremation how the echidnas usually did things?”  Sonic asked.

Knuckles shook his head.  They should be returned to the earth, the echidna’s second home.  Being left on the battlefield was less favorable but still honorable.  Being burned into nothing was not abhorrent… but it was not their way.  But what could Knuckles do?

What did it even matter?  What was one more scrap of injustice in the patchwork of misery that was his life?  His people had been reviled across the galaxy for centuries, driven into extinction.  Of course their culture would be disrespected long after all but one of them were dead.  Of course they would be destroyed so thoroughly that there would be nothing left.

Nothing was ever fair for him.  He couldn’t change that.  Why should this be any different?  Why should the Wachowskis be able to change things?  The universe didn’t bend to their wishes just because they cared for him.  Walters certainly didn’t.

“The fact of the matter is, we don’t want to waste resources burying our dead enemies when we have living people whose homes and livelihoods were destroyed.”

That was met with an uncomfortable silence.

“We could lay them to rest?”  Tom tried.

“There’s nearly ten thousand bodies.”

Another quiet pause.

Maddie touched his hand.  Knuckles stared at it numbly.  “Could we… could we at least lay Knuckles’ father to rest?”

Walters held out his hands.  “There’s nearly ten thousand bodies!  Finitevus must’ve been collecting them from all over.  Our scientists have dated some of them at over six thousand years old!”

“Those would be…” Tails said anxiously.  “Pretty culturally significant, right?  Really old human bodies are important.  You want to just burn these?”

Walters folded his fingers together.  “We have to ensure nothing like this can happen again.”

“You already have!”  Sonic said.  He was the only Wachowski on his feet.  “Finitevus is gone!”

Walters eyed Knuckles.  “Someone else could take up his work.”

“Says the guy who is determined to become part of a villain origin story.  And no, I’m not talking about Knuckles!”

“Easy, Sonic,” Tom urged.  Sonic shot him a betrayed look.  He saw Knuckles watching him and his face fell.  “Knuckles?”  He asked.  “Won’t you say something?”

He should.  He knew he should.  He would regret saying nothing.  But unfortunately… “Nothing I say matters.”

All the Wachowskis looked at him.  It was the first thing he’d said since Wade had brought him back.  Since his emotions had gone away.  They were shocked into silence for a moment.  Then the moment was gone.

“That’s not true–”

“It is true,” said Walters.  “The decision has been made.  This meeting is just to inform you.”

Maddie opened her mouth to speak, but Walters interrupted:  “The United States government doesn’t officially recognize the existence of aliens so we don’t officially recognize their human rights…  Which they aren’t.  So they don’t have any.”

Sonic bristled.  “Are you serious?  I helped you guys save so many people, isn’t that worth anything?”

“We are allowing you to keep a super weapon.”

“Wha–The Master Emerald has nothing to do with it.”

Again Walters looked at Knuckles.  “Correction: we are allowing you to keep two super weapons.”

The car ride home was quiet except for the occasional sniffle from Maddie.  Tom had tried to offer some consolation, but she’d cut him off with a quiet, but heated: “Not now Tom, I’m furious .”  And no one wanted to follow that with anything.  So she cried in the front seat while Sonic slowly deflated into his defeat in the back.  Tails wouldn’t stop holding himself.  Tom just seemed determined to get them back to their temporary lodging.

They stopped at a red light and Tom glanced back at him.  “Are you okay, Knuckles?”  He asked.

Knuckles meant to say nothing, but words appeared in his mouth before they appeared in his head:  “Did you know they built a shrine where Longclaw fell?”

It was possible for silence to have a tone and that statement caused it to shift just slightly.  

“W-we could build a shrine here,” Sonic said, his voice strained.  “For your people.”

Knuckles wanted to ask who would visit such a shrine?  Who cared that his people were gone other than him?  The Wachowskis?  Certainly not Sonic.  Maybe the people from the towns the legion had destroyed.  Maybe they would come to spit on their memory.

But those words would chip away the dam.  So he said nothing and shook his head.

They returned to the temporary Wachowski home.  A hotel room many miles from the ruins of House Wachowski and Green Hills.  Tom said that they would go back and rebuild, but they would probably have to find other, more permanent, temporary lodgings soon.

The hotel had little privacy except for the bathroom, where Knuckles was not keen to spend much time, and the balcony, where everyone could still see him.  He chose the balcony.

He sat and stared out between the bars of the balcony’s railing.  A foreign city spread out before him.  All cities were foreign to him.  The only ones he had ever grown comfortable with were all destroyed now.

The door rattled as it slid open and shut again.  Knuckles did not turn to look, but he recognized Maddie’s footsteps as she approached.  She sat beside him.  He still did not look her way.

“I’m sorry for losing my cool back there,” she said.  “I… I should’ve asked you to speak more.  It’s your life.  Your people.”

She paused expectantly, but Knuckles had nothing to say to that.  It seemed so clear now that he had never had any control over his life.  He certainly had no control over the fate of his people.  Why should things be any different now?  His lone voice couldn’t change anything.  Walters had already made up his mind.  Short of attacking him and somehow stealing ten thousand bodies, there wasn’t anything Knuckles could do.  There was never anything he could do.

“Please, Knuckles…”  Maddie’s voice wavered.  “Please, talk to me.  Talk to me , Knuckles.  What are you feeling?  Do you feel sad?  Angry?  Guilty?  We keep telling you it’s not your fault–”

“That is not the problem!” The words burst out of him before he could stop it.  Something was bubbling up in him.  He had to keep a lid on it.  He had to.

Maddie just looked relieved that he’d said something.  “What is the problem?”

Knuckles wanted to say nothing.  But he could see the endless field of corpses every time he closed his eyes.  Not a nightmare.  Real.  His tribe lost for a second time.  And now they would be destroyed until no trace remained.  It was too much, the dam was buckling.

“I was dreaming.  A good dream.”  He started down at his fists, clenching and unclenching his hands. “Then I woke up.  Now I’m here where everything hurts.”  Oh.  He had not meant to say ‘hurts’.  He wanted to say ‘is horrible’.  ‘Hurts’ was on the other side of the dam.  ‘Hurts’ was a drowning word.  He was making it worse.  He made everything worse.

Maddie touched his hand.  

“Physically or emotionally?”

He grit his teeth.  His eyes burned.  It took all his strength to hold the flood back.  “ Everything. ”

“What can I do for you?  What do you want?”

He stared at the hands that had done so many bad things without his permission.  The only other echidna using him and then dying.  He thought of his father thrown on a pyre by strangers.  He squeezed his eyes shut and gasped for breath like he really was drowning.  He didn’t want this.  He didn’t want any of this!

He pressed his face into his fists and breathed like each breath would force the emotions back down.  Maddie did not press.  She allowed him to sit like that for a long, long moment.  Long enough for Knuckles to wrest some semblance of control over himself.  When at last he lowered his hands, he found her watching him, hopeful and expectant.

He answered her honestly:  “I want to sleep forever, and never wake up.”

[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!