#tw fictional dead body

[katyon18plus]

Mother is here......

Inspired by Okaasan by Machigerita-P

I just wanted to practice certain expressions......

[gallusrostromegalus]

A Miracle In The Night

Sometimes, you get an idea for a lightly fucked up short story. TW: Death, mild gore, Plot Twist :)

---

She travels through the night And listens

Some might call her home dark and cold and akin to the lowest levels of hell, But their heaven burns her eyes and skin and her very breath To her, The Endless Night is Paradise

The whole world was like this once, in the very beginning The Divine Darkness which contains the potential for every tragedy and miracle and everything in between, and she is blessed  to travel through the gardens of creation.

The Night created everything, even God, who lives in the burning world and blesses the sinless beings of the night with the very force of life.

But not even Paradise is free of suffering.

It should be this way, of course- nothing would ever happen otherwise. Everything that happens is a miracle. It’s just a question of who the Miracle is for.

There will be a Miracle tonight. She can feel it- the tension is electric across her skin, gut tightening, every sense on edge.

Starvation leads to such peculiar sensitivity.

She’s on the verge of death-  It should be this way, otherwise nothing could be alive. But she’s closer to the edge than usual.

It’s been so long since she felt the Burning Love of God within her. The delicious taste of good fortune in the night Chasing ecstasy with a racing heart and feeling her body fly The heat in her belly, seeping out through her until it filled her with the Divine Warmth of God’s Love.

It’s been so, so long since she’s eaten.

It’s been uneasy- the breathing of the world has been unsteady of late- too early and too late, out of time like it has become ill and all things suffer for it. There is nothing to partake of in her usual hunting grounds, so she has traveled far, far from home, into a brighter and hotter part of the night.

Here, the protective wall between her and the burning world exists only in scattered fragments, and strange and monstrous things traverse the thin veil between their worlds.

Here, the eternal night has been invaded by noxious, screaming beasts from the burning world above.  They race with their bodies straddling the barrier between their worlds, far faster than anything has the right to fly, howling with a deafening voice that can be heard for hundreds of miles.

It’s a problem because she cannot hear the songs of her prey.

Everything sings, if one will listen. The high, chiming pings of the smallest stars flashing with bioluminescence around her. The long, low songs of the fire-breathers, who hunt here in the abyss for one of her oldest brothers, but return to the barrier and briefly cross it to breathe before they return. Even the earth sings- the moan and crack of her body as she shifts her weight, the almost invisible inhale and exhale of her seasons. She even builds great musical instruments of ash and smoke and an even hotter burning than the world above, singing the tale of the first days of creation in honor of the endless night.

But the behemoths do not sing.

They scream and scream and scream and their piss reeks of vile poison and overexertion. Almost like the way an injured animal can put on a miraculous turn of speed to escape pursuit. What might be pursuing such behemoths is an awful but intriguing consideration. Perhaps the behemoths are the little darting beings of the burning world, and the thing they flee the equivalent of herself. She’s seen it before, when the moon is high and she travels up to the barrier, and the little dancing bodies leap across the barrier to avoid her.

To that end, she can only wish her counterpart good hunting- both in the sympathy between one apex predator and another, and the hope that maybe it will get better at catching the behemoths before they come into her world.

Still, Where there is disturbance, There is also opportunity.

There are rumors from those that live closer to the barrier that the behemoths piss poison but shit out bounties- the wastes of these things are food direct from the burning world, where God lives, and that waste is full of The Divine Warmth of Life. The direct waste is devoured by the smallest and fastest things first, but when they are clustered at their feast, they are easier for the larger beings to partake in, and so too larger things than they until even her most beautiful borderland sister with the belly pale as the moon is now as round as it, fat with the blessing of pups.

So she has ventured as close as she dares to the world of her sisters in hopes of finding the rumored prey so full of the Burning Love of God.

She needs it. She can’t live without it.

A Miracle will happen tonight.

Whether for her or the crawling lives of the deepest night remains to be seen.

She follows the terrible screaming song of the behemoth in silence and prays for a miracle. She does not sing praise when she prays. She preys when she prays.

The highest reverence to The Divine Night is to Listen. To travel in silence, and take in all the songs of The Night.

So she makes herself silent and listens and listens and listens to the screaming song, hoping that somewhere in the noise, she can hear the soft voice of God.

This time God answers with a voice like thunder.

It really is like being too close to a lightning strike, the way the noise viscerally passes through her and lights up every nerve, teeth gritting and body thrashing as she feels the voice of God the same way she feels the body of a lover against her own.

The scream of the behemoth changes. It sputters, then pitches wildly, low visceral injury and high keening pain, like the fire-breathers when they try to hunt the largest of her brothers and become prey themselves.

Oh, what a beautiful song to something like her.

She aches, weak and tired, but hope and joy surge through her and she forces herself to move at speed, even for all the energy it takes, because perhaps the miracle is for her tonight- 

She flies as fast as she can towards the dying behemoth, as does every brother and sister and ancestor and descendant, all as desperate to feast upon God’s Love as she- all of them race forward but then up, and up and up up to where the Behemoth is sinking into their world- It has run upon a fragment of the protective barrier hard enough to tear it's side and break it's back. There is the terrible acrid scent of it’s noxious  piss and if she were not on the verge of starvation it might be enough to put her off the feast.  

But she flies on and up- even weak with hunger she is one of the largest and fastest of her family when she needs to be, so she is the first to smell other strange things from the behemoth- burning flavors that sting her nose and mouth, as well as sweet things that confuse intrigue, and-

Oh. Oh, GOD!

It’s blood but nothing like any blood she’s tasted before- it’s actually HOT in the night, burning with the warmth of the other world even this far from it’s origin, rich and fatty and metallic like the flesh of a fallen fire-breather but even more so.  She spreads her wings and sways her hips and spine to fly as fast as she can, the way a lover pursues her- full of nothing but adoration and a desire to make their bodies as one.

Then in a beam of moonlight, she sees the first of the bodies from the burning world.

The frenzy at the behemoth is a feast for the ages, from the exultant chorus above, and the fact that even with every member of her family for a hundred miles around at the feast, there are so many bodies to feast upon that a body is falling past the festivities to her, uneaten and whole.

What a strange and beautiful body it is.

She pauses, circling it even as her mouth and gut ache for it, studying the being from the burning world.

It’s hot, hotter than any body she’s ever felt before, even though it is very definitely dead, as unsuited to breathe the night as she is to breathe fire. Its wings are long and twist strangely, like the tentacles of her brothers that are hunted by the fire-breathers. It’s awkwardly shaped, like the crawling five-winged creatures of the mud, but not quite.  There is an almost unsettling familiarity to its symmetry.

The fire-breathers say they used to live in the burning world, but returned to the night, and that all the beasts of the burning world had too once come from the night. It had sounded absurd, but looking upon the form of this being now, she wondered.

Well. Only the one thing to do, really.

Gently, she approaches the being, opens her mouth to embrace it, and welcomes it home to the night.

There is no love like the love the predator feels for its prey.  It is reverence made flesh- O holy being, oh virtue to pursue and make one’s own.It is the flesh made reverent- Please, little being of the burning world, let her love you as she loves her own children, the weight of your body deep within her own. 

There is no gratitude like the gratitude a predator feels for its prey. She owes you her life tonight, little being of the burning world. She lives from the mercy of your body alone. It is already a kindness she can never repay to live by your generosity, but oh, you made it so sweet-  Your blood intoxicates her senses, your body thrillingly warm- as agonizing as the fire of the burning world is to breathe in, it’s just as wonderful to swallow.

You are so sweet, so sweet, she will remember this favor forever.

There is no miracle like the divine connection between predator and prey. Oh child of the burning world, you who brings the Warmth of God into The Endless Night, You burning being of God’s Love. She is blessed by you, messenger of God.  Through you she receives the miracle of life.

Welcome, little burning being Welcome home to the night from whence you came Welcome inside her deepest self, and receive her hospitality.

She swallows the little burning being up with adoration, feeling it settle within her. Relief, ecstasy and satisfaction swirl but are interrupted by the appearance of another body. And another And another And another

The Behemoth itself falls, it’s body still curiously dynamic even torn in half- one end dives for the bottom of the night with somewhat alarming speed, where the other glides along to the depths on an angled path, the distant motion still visible with the bioluminescence it stirs up along it’s path. It is massive beyond anything she's seen before, more like a piece of geography than a living organism.

And all along its wake, hundreds of bodies spill forth from inside.

What a strange miracle this is. But she’s not one to refuse God’s Love. And if the beings of the burning world travel in huge schools with their behemoth, the peculiar notion that the little being within her might be lonely occurs to her. …Wow, she’s REALLY drunk.

Still, she eats three more of the burning beings before her guts are almost bursting with fullness, a bizarre sensation she’d only heard about from those who had been fortunate enough to feast on the fallen body of a fire-breather and had to leave the excess to the crawling beings of the bottom. So too, does she watch more bodies descend deep into the night as she returns to her world of darkness and song, the behemoth’s terrible screams now silent with rest, and the choir of the night rejoicing in this miracle.

---

Two miles above the revelry of God’s Favorite Greenland Shark, the survivors of the Titanic prayed into the endless night for a miracle, unaware it had already been granted.

[grumpyghostdoodles]

So this (https://www.tumblr.com/grumpyghostdoodles/745037754457636864/that-other-anon-has-just-made-me-think-about-some) post made me think that just any revived human has this issue like it’s a curse.

Well, originally Clover just had bigfoot syndrome and cant get a decent pic and Chara was just ungodly unphotogenic, BUT NOW ...!

Of COURSE im gonna take a chance to bet my fav characters with an angst bat, its one of my fav hobbies!

The curse: As long as they are even remotely aware that there is a camera, they will just be their usual unphotogenic selves, no weird things happening, those two just truly cant pose for a pic to save their lives. BUT, if they are not aware that they are getting a photo taken, well, theres a chance that it might come out....different

(Post1, Post2 and Post3 that asks are referring to)

[meeks-just-wants-to-scroll]

“What if we make two men who hate each other and an unfortunate rich boy travel across the RDR2 map while avoiding an apocalypse-level monster invasion?” - Doeiika, at some point.

Go read The World by @doeiika / SourApplechips on AO3.

Under the cut is art involving blood / gore… also a brief reference to Blood Under The Snow by Amras.

To be the protagonist is to be changed (physically and or mentally).

[davycoquette]

the interview 1/3

Late on a spring morning I stand over the body of acclaimed author Robert Barclay in the kitchen of his ranch style home in southern Virginia. I couldn't tell you how long I’ve been doing this — only that the sun has climbed higher and the shadows have been stretched long across the linoleum floor. His little dog has come by to sniff at him a few times, but mostly stands near its food dish whining at me.

I’m late again.

I'm late to most everything. I was meant to arrive at eight o'clock sharp, for starters, but didn't pull into the driveway until twenty after. When he didn’t come to the door, I figured he must have taken offense.

Judging by the bruises pooling in his skin, though, I would’ve needed to be pretty early to catch him alive.

But I'm weeks late. I was supposed to schedule this appointment last month so his article would appear in the June issue of The Hammond. It's his birthday month, and he's just turned ninety.

I've never seen a dead body before.

I never have, but I know beyond the shadow of a doubt that he’s dead. I am too late, and the assigning editor of the lit magazine I'm working for is never going to give me another job.

It's not that I want to write for The Hammond; no one cares about literary mags. It's this misguided ambition that made me put this interview off in the first place; I wanted to grab an one with an up and coming blues rock musician while we were in the same state instead. It didn't pan out, and here I am standing in the kitchen with the corpse of R. Barclay.

And, given the propensity things have not to pan out for me, The Hammond is the best I'm going to do. I can hear Jason, the editor, now: I stick my neck out for you, Franky. I extend deadlines for you, and it bites me in the ass. Everything always bites me in the ass with you.

He already advertised the interview, too — that's the thing. R. Barclay is a big name, always relevant in The Hammond’s unbearably dull world. This is an interview folks were looking forward to, and Jason made it out like it already took place. But I was late.

And now what the fuck do I do, Franky? 'Well, folks, bad news: Old Barclay kicked it before our no account journalist got his shit together.’

I might as well put down my recorder and find an office job, or go work in a factory somewhere. At this rate, I'm never going to get this career off the ground.

I realize I need to call somebody.

PART TWO

[secretly-a-catamount]

  Water is eternal. It cannot be created. It cannot be destroyed.

  Water is ancient. It fell from the heavens at the beginning of the world encased in rock, and, once it was freed, drowned the flames and ash. It falls to the earth still, a cycle that cannot be broken, an ouroboros eating its own tail.

  Water is all-encompassing, everywhere. It is present in ever living thing. It seeps into that which is believed to be dead but is not.

  Water births.

  Water sustains.

  Water kills.

  The man walked up the misted dock with an assurance that could only be granted by absolute power; someone who was used to taking what he wanted, the very mountains crumbling beneath his will. His skin was paler than sun-bleached bone, and his hair was the color of burnished gold and fell in tousled waves to his coat collar. He wore black clothing, blacker boots, and a dark gray jacket that accentuated his musculature well, silver buttons neatly fastened through ever hole atop his wrists and up the deceptively delicate, almost swan-like curve of his throat. His blood ran slowly through his veins, each beat of his heart punctured by a wound that would never heal.

  He stopped halfway down the dock, hellfire-green eyes scanning the partially obscured surface of the lake, and spoke.

  “I need you to do something for me.”

  The trees did not answer, gnarled roots and trunks bent, arms burdened with leaves bending down to be swallowed by the water, but the man had not expected them to. The mist did not answer either, but he had not expected it to, anymore than the trees. The wind, faint and weak, running the incorporeal tendrils of its fingers down his neck, didn’t answer, but he had not expected it to anymore than he had the trees and the mist.

  “I said: I need you to do something for me.”

  We heard you the first time, the response came from everywhere and nowhere, a thousand voices speaking as one but slightly overlapping, the angry buzz of bees, the deafening patter of raindrops against a metal roof, the howl of a hurricane, waves crashing against the shore, who are you, to think you can command the Element of Water?

  “I’m the Enemy of Death.”

  A moment of silence, then a loud crack as the end of the dock splintered off, then a thump as a mangled corpse pulled itself from the churning depths and heaved itself onto the splintered end of the dock.

  The mage gasped and staggered back, watching as the animated corpse dragged itself towards him with the nasty scraps of bone against wood, and the wet slaps of wood against rotted flesh. The water, splintered boards, rusted nails, vegetation, and silt, came with it, reconstructed its body as it went.

  By the time the Devoured was erected and whole, the Enemy of Death had composed himself again to the point of neutrality.

  The Devoured smiled like a predator, the vines wrapped around her bones and ruptured flesh acting as muscles and ligaments, her remaining bits of skin splitting at the movement, peeling away from her ruined body. Blood and oil leaked from her empty eye sockets, and her black hair twisted around her form like a shroud. She was vaguely humanoid, vaguely feminine, and vaguely young. She wore the tattered remains of a Golden Year uniform and a Magisterium wristband.

  “Hello, Tamara.”

  Hello, Aaron.

[nowweknowtherearenoangels]

Session 1 - This Is Not a Place of Honour

I was right to have such a bad feeling about this. I thought it'd be fine at first, I'd met our unit's nurse and somehow that soothed everything for a night or two, but then we got sent into action.

Myself and a few others, notably the nurse Paula, a French soldier named Jules, two Russians named Mikhail and Sergei, were informed by our officer that we needed to wake up before dawn and take out an experimental tank on a mission to pick up a reporter from a location nearby.

I don't typically like to speak ill of people, but Lord forgive me when I say that man was easily the most annoying person I have ever had to encounter. His name is Julian Flores and he appears to be completely devoid of the ability to stop talking for more than a millisecond. In fact, on the way back, he only shut up after Mikhail threatened to punch him and Paula gently diffused the fight.

Perfect silence for less than maybe fifteen minutes before I spotted a fucking corpse.

I do not want to detail it and I do not want to think about it because it makes me exceptionally ill, but it was carrying a bag full of papers, which Julian picked up and handed to us. Jules and I read it over together and discovered that the papers were enemy plans for the construction of a tank very similar to ours with inside info from someone who had been on the project on our side. This means we have a traitor in our midst.

I thought it wouldn't get any more gruesome, but at that point we began passing by piles of bodies picked clean of flesh and trails of blood leading off into the terrain beyond. Naturally, we needed to get them out of our way, so we attempted to clean them up, only to be ambushed. At first I thought maybe our attackers were enemy soldiers, but when I finally saw them, they were unlike anything I'd ever seen before. Imagine a man, but with razor-sharp teeth and seemingly unseeing eyes.

I later learned that these are called Corpse Feeders, known to some as Ghouls.

We went into combat almost instantly, but all our first shots missed. Paula and Jules stayed back at the tank, understandably, and frankly I wish I'd been permitted to join them. Jules fired a second shot and hit one of the beasts in the shoulder, but it countered by trying to bite Sergei while on open ground. The other came after me. It stank, like rotting blood, a smell which I would never wish anyone to grow familiar with. I ducked behind a wall at the last second.

It should be noted to anyone reading this that those things are absolutely fucking stupid. After I dodged, it completely failed to realize that it, too, could go around the wall and simply reached for me while I scooted back and waved my bayonet at it.

I also discovered very quickly that my Russian teammates are clearly both insane. Mikhail started by punching the one attacking Sergei before Sergei punched it as well. Then, Mikhail turned around and punched the one that was trying to get at me, killing it and sending its body tumbling to my feet. I'm at the very least proud to say that I didn't just sit there paralyzed by fear, though. I swerved around Sergei and used my bayonet to stab the abomination still attacking him between the ribs, causing it to die and spray blood in every possible direction (including but not limited to my face). It was about as awful as it sounds.

On the way back, Julian immediately began asking questions about the battle. I'm not completely ashamed to say that I wiped some of the acrid blood off of my cheek and smeared it across his forehead, to which he shut up for the rest of the ride.

I ought to stop writing for now, it's late and I have to get up early tomorrow. I've washed myself and am in my bunk surrounded by the others, most of whom are also settling in for bed. I'll make an effort to write to Mum tomorrow and let her know that I arrived safely.

~ 🔗

[cookie-nom-nom]

On the Subject of Religion and Rot: Part 2

Part 1 is here. A short story about the Elder, a mushroom hivemind, devouring the World Tree.

Cyra pulled her headscarf around her mouth tightly to shelter from the spores, taking breaths so shallow that she felt light-headed. But perhaps that was simply grief. Her pilgrimage to the World Tree had taken years, only to discover her goddess being desecrated by a necrotic cult. While scholars and priests sang the praises of the Elder, overjoyed with the advancements in science and art, Cyra hardened her heart to them. To defile the origin of Life was so abhorrent she tasted bile. 

But the Elder had answers, if she could swallow her pride and loathing. Its worshipers swore Its blessing was bestowed upon any who had an offering and patience. No knowledge was forbidden under Its wise benevolence. Cyra thought It to be a gluttonous parasite that would whore Itself out for any fool willing to get their hands bloody. But she may as well test how kindly It took to heretics. 

The floor of the World Tree was stained with blood. The consumption spiraled downward, tracing the tree rings as they plunged into the earth and burrowing into the roots that threaded the underworld together. Radiant mycelium etched gorgeous runes along the walls, outlining the quarry stretching impossibly far to the depths below. Upwards, too, hollowing out the branches that constellations roosted in. Cyra swallowed roughly as she realized the destruction carving through Her flesh was perfectly designed so that humans could traverse it. The paths were lined with countless statues of worshipers who sacrificed themselves to the festering rot. The Elder beckoned people to come and partake in the harvest of the World Tree.  

Her lungs burned, but she was terrified of breathing in. Cyra stumbled through the dark to the closest human husk she could find, hurling a dead passerine at Its feet. For a split second, the sprawled network of mycelium glowed. Cyra scowled, stunned by the sudden illumination. Wouldn’t have been as much of a shock were lanterns allowed, but they were expressly forbidden. It made traversing a nightmare. Cyra hated them for that, too, but the cult destroying her goddess could do little right by her. 

Cyra bent her head in supplication, though her humility was a thin veneer for the loathing in her mortal soul. But if this was the price for learning how to save her goddess, Cyra would sacrifice it a thousand times over. And so she hummed a quick prayer to the World Tree, and when calm once more besought Her enemy thus: “Can She be saved?” 

— —

The only salvation for the dead is through those they nourish. 

It’d been weeks since Cyra left the songbird to rot, and now she clutched its dry bones, staring at the message carved into them. Dead. The World Tree was dead. Her goddess had been murdered. Would the stars plummet from the sky? Would the dead be barred from the underworld? What apocalypse had they unleashed? 

Uncaring of the risk of contamination, Cyra ripped back her sleeve, holding her shaking arm out to the glowing mycelium so that she might read the hymns permanently inked upon her dark skin. She hummed them over and over, till the pain in her throat grew too great and a keening note tore out of her. Cyra began to sob, realizing her hymns were laid at the feet of a dead goddess. Nothing could save mankind from this. Cyra alone knew to mourn existence, and the grief of it was far too much to bear. 

She choked on every syllable. Who was she to sing the eulogy of Creation Herself? 

Next>

[bigbadripley]

Chapter 22 - Thunder

Marc Spector/Steven Grant/Jake Lockley x Female!OC

Summary: Marc never expected to see his childhood friend Simone ever again. To Simone, Marc may as well have been dead. However, when Simone met Steven 15 years after Marc disappeared, she couldn’t help but notice how familiar he was.

18+ | 2.9k Words | Third-person omniscient | Darkfic | AU/AT |

Warnings: Heavy language, OC with religious trauma, childhood trauma, sexual trauma, the effects of this in adulthood, smut mention, death mention, graphic descriptions of death, missing persons, maybe some typos, kidnapping, torture, violence, blood, gore, bodily fluids, DARK STUFF.

Tagging for the loves: @ahookedheroespureheart

A/N: This one is particularly brutal and has moments of graphic grodiness. Only proceed if you can handle the themes included in the warnings.

Minors DNI, DL;DR, if I miss a warning, please let me know.

Chapter list 

"Sick of chasin' Highs and lows in all these different places Devils workin' I can feel it, I know he's obsessed with me Please don't catch up to me runnin' from Fear in my mind" -"Thunder" by 99 Neighbors 

It took several tries for Simone's recording to work for them, not for lack of trying, and plenty of excuses were made for why before they were honest with themselves:

It's just not the same. She's not here. 

Their last-ditch effort to get hypnosis to work without Simone being present seemed like a more comical approach with unnecessary steps like earbuds for concentration and spritzing her perfume all over the room in her apartment. They thought it would be hopeless until Marc remembered what she had told him:

I need your undivided attention, no skepticism.

That was the ticket, and they were standing outside Marc's body, which was cross-legged on the floor of Moni's living room, with Steven in the same suit as before and Jake in the cap and jacket. They stood around his real body just the same as they did before in the astral plane.

"Fellas," Jake spoke first, now open to their existence enough to notice them this time. Marc and Steven had heard the recording enough times to know the next part was for Jake to take the body and for them to go to the mirrors, but that step didn't come. 

The two stared at each other, waiting and realizing it was taking too long. 

"Did the earbuds unpair?" Steven asked. Marc shrugged,

"I don't think so." He answered, stepping dreamily to the wall on their left and seeing that the charger wasn't hooked into the outlet. "Fuck." He hissed. "The phone died." 

Steven immediately remembered that he was the one who suggested plugging it in, but nobody thought to see if the phone was actually charging. "So, we're stuck here?" He asked with a bit of panic. 

"Not unless we get this sorted out this time." Marc replied, referring to coming to some kind of agreement with Lockley. 

"I already told you, schmucks, I don't want what you're sellin'." Jake piped up. "Not unless you can give me something to work with."

Marc felt the same biting irritation for Jake as he did before. The smug, asshole-for-the-hell-of-it attitude was radiating off of him, and it made Marc want to be an asshole back.

There's no time. Marc thought before he spoke. "Moni's missing. We need your help finding her."

"Missing?" Jake started, crossing his arms and shifting his weight to his left leg. "The hell did you two do?" Jake asked, assuming Simone ran off to avoid them. This assumption got under Marc's skin, but that didn't stop him from explaining what they knew. At the mention of Walton, Jake cut Marc off. "Yeah, I remember a couple a' cops showing up at her door askin' about that guy. You think he's got her?"

"No other reason she'd be gone. He's a real psycho, too, so we must hurry up with this." Steven answered his question, trying his best to ignore that Jake was at Moni's place.

Jake stood for a moment, unbelieving of what he was hearing. He realized if they were willing to put aside the bargaining and make this work, he was also ready to look past it. "Alright, how do we do this?"

Marc and Steve looked at each other knowingly, having gone through the motions before, as Marc answered Jake's question. "Let's start opening some doors, see what connections we can make."

Simone woke up several times throughout the night, still tied to the chair and still trying to wake up from what could only be a horrible dream before Walton would zap her with her own hot shot. Soon after, she would fall back to sleep due to her groggy state that reeked of concussion city. 

This time when she woke up, a small beam of light shone through the boards covering the single window of the room she was in. It wasn't much, but it burned her eyes and made her already achy head pound more. Once she could get her eyes opened enough, she studied the space around her. Cement floors, brick walls, and no doubt a single level.

She imagined the rancid smell that had offended her nostrils all night was from the garbage pile in the corner to her left nearest the window until she dared to look to the right corner. The sight horrified her beyond screaming. She was entirely frozen by the stack of her patients, one on top of the other like a sick collection. Each was brutally beaten and strangled, just like the victims that initially landed Walton in prison. 

Simone began to retch and heave, unable to look at poor Corey's face directed right at her with bulging eyes and cold, dead lips. Her mouth was still taped, and she hadn't eaten since noon the day before, so hot bile was the only thing to come up. It filled her mouth, and with no way of expelling it, Simone had no choice but to swallow it again. 

The sound of a door opening behind her startled her again and caused her to stop her weeping, afraid of getting shocked or hit again. Heavy footsteps circled behind her, and the feeling of another presence caused the hairs on her neck to stand. Once Walton was in her view, she saw him smiling like he was revisiting an old friend. 

"G'morning, doctor. I brought you some breakfast." He said, holding a plastic takeout container and placing it in her lap. She eyeballed it, scared to react. "I'll remove the tape, but you can't scream." 

Right, you probably have my fucking zapper in your pocket, you fuck. She thought to herself. Walton took the corner of the tape into his fingers and pulled it slowly, causing Simone to relish the feeling of air on her lips pruned again. 

He let the tape drop to the floor and pulled a metal chair over to her from the other side of the room, sitting in front of her. He opened the takeaway container to reveal two pieces of toast and some beans with a disposable fork. It didn't look appetizing, given the smells and sights around her. 

"I'm not hungry." She said, voice barely reaching above a squeak from her raw throat. She was thirsty if anything. Walton's eyes filled with confusion that Simone couldn't help but mistake for stupidity. 

I know you got a lot of shit wrong with you, but fuck dude, you think I wanna eat right now?

"Now, doctor, you'll need to eat something some time." He told her, smiling again and revealing his gnarly teeth. She could smell his breath from where he sat and couldn't tell what was worse: the bodies or his halitosis. "I'll go get you some water, and we'll begin our session. How about that?"

Walton obviously brought her here because he thought she could help him. She knew there was a small chance she could reason with him, and she took the opportunity. 

"John, you know how this whole thing looks, right?" She asked, turning on the tone she would use with him during her visits. It was tender but stern. 

"Yes, I know it looks proper awful, but you understand me. You know why I had to do all of this." 

Walton wasn't an idiot. He knew right from wrong but did not feel remorse or fear punishment for wrongdoings. Where ordinary people had a conscience, Walton had an empty space. From what Simone could gather, he saw her as a way to fill in for that, like Jiminy fucking Cricket. She pushed harder. 

"This won't end well for you if you keep me here, John. Let me go with you to turn yourself in. We can get you in a facility instead of prison." 

Walton seemed to think about it seriously, and Simone almost called it a victory until he shook his head. "I can't do that, doctor. My only option is to keep you, and we can work on me." 

Simone suddenly found it hard to keep the kind voice with him. He didn't understand that holding her against her will wouldn't do him any good and that he didn't have a good track record for keeping victims alive. "Walton, you can't keep me here."

"But I can, and I will." 

"No, you need to let me go, asshole!" 

Her word use caused him to pull the zapper out of his pocket and hit her with it on her arm, sending a jolt through her entire body. She squeaked and squirmed the moment it touched her skin. "Fuck you!" She let out in response. Walton didn't take kindly to that either and hit her with the device again, this time to her bare, sweat-sticky thigh. She didn't outburst this time. She only sat and acknowledged the pile of her patients in the corner. 

I deserve this, don't I?

"That's the last of the memories, but I don't think that broke down any barriers. We're still in our head." Steven said as he closed the door to the flat behind them. 

"I'm still thinkin' this won't work." Jake piped up with a shrug. 

"It has to work. This is our only option." Marc responded. The three stood in a triangle shape with his body in the middle again, just like before. The haziness of the ultra-focused state was making him exhausted, but he knew they needed to find a way.

"It wouldn't've come to this if you'd protected Simone better," Jake said. He was getting frustrated and worried just as much as the other two about Simone's safety. Jake realized he probably liked her more than he initially thought and wanted to see her okay. 

Jake's fingerpointing was nearly the tipping point for Marc. He had enough of dealing with the alter's mouth through their walk down memory lane. He didn't need Jake to blame him for her disappearance because he had blamed himself enough already. "You didn't exactly do a fantastic job either, pal." He responded, stepping toward him with an extended finger. Jake squinted,

"I'm just sayin', for the star of this show, you sure fuck up a whole lot." He said with a huff. It was already established that they could touch each other in this state, and once Marc remembered that fact, he brought his fist up to hit Jake for his criticisms. 

"Enough! Both of you!" Steven objected, stepping between them before it got too heated. "Fighting won't bloody help. I've got another idea."

Marc blinked away the red and took a step back, observing how collected Jake looked through all of this. Jake was used to pissing people off.

"Whatcha got, English?" Jake asked Steven first. Steven tweaked an eyebrow at the nickname before turning his attention to Marc.

"You remember in the Duat? When we accepted ourselves and all that jazz? You've got to do that again."

"I dunno, buddy. I can't accept that this guy is any part of me."

"Well, he is. He's a bit rough around the edges, yeah, but he wants to find Simone just like we do."

It was hard for Jake to come to terms with not being his own man. All this time, he thought he was the original. He didn't want to accept it but knew there would be no other choice. "So I gotta accept that this is real shit, eh? I gotta say that I'm not... me?" Jake asked, unable to hide the disappointment in his voice. He didn't know if he could do it. 

"You're still you, Lockley. You're just a piece of the puzzle. Doesn't make you any less real." Marc answered, sounding much more reassuring now that he saw Jake show a human emotion that wasn't cynical prick. 

"Alright." Jake started, exhaling heavily. He wanted to believe in it for the sake of his hermosa. "I'm Jake Lockey, alter of Marc... uh-"

"Spector," Marc said with an eye roll. 

Can't remember my name for shit. No wonder he calls Moni all those stupid nicknames. He thought. Jake snapped his fingers and pointed to Marc like he had come to the conclusion on his own. "Spector!" He exclaimed. "Did it work?"

The three looked from one shared face to another like confused triplets. Nothing felt different. They weren't sure exactly what they needed to feel, but they all figured it wasn't happening. 

Steven, being the one who remembered their time in the Duat the best because obviously, though dead, it was the most exciting thing that ever happened to him, answered the question. "There's more to it. You and Marc have to accept your place in the system. I, for example, was the protector when Marc was young."

"That means you're the protector from dangers in adulthood. You popped up when I was in the Marines." Marc added his own point. 

Jake thought of the memory they revisited, where he fought with a lance corporal before stealing a humvee and making a break for it. He remembered being confused, unsure of why he was there in the first place. That was until he saw what transpired before he took over. 

"I guess I am, huh?" Jake confirmed, more to himself than the other two.

"And no matter how much I want to obliterate your face for sleeping with Moni," Marc stepped forward, holding back his tone. They were working together now. "I know you're here to help, not harm." 

"So, uh, do we hug now?" Jake asked. 

"We can start with a handshake," Marc answered, holding his right hand out. Jake gave it a once-over and brought his own hand to it, sealing the deal. 

Before anything else could be said, Jake was suddenly awake, sitting on the floor with Simone's phone in his lap and earbuds in. He looked around, realizing he had woken up and taken over as usual. 

"Did it work?" He asked the open air, fearing the other two wouldn't make it out. 

"Right here, mate," Steven answered first. 

"That makes two." Marc chimed in. "Alright, let's get our girl."

Simone couldn't tell how long she had her there. After an hour of listening to Walton ramble on and on about his homicidal tendencies and trying to pretend to care, he finally left her alone again. From there, she fell asleep again due to the haziness of her head and lack of nourishment.

She soon couldn't tell if it was a new day or still light outside, but the dimness told her it was sundown or sunup. She had already wet herself several times. The room's funkiness only worsened, and the smell alone was almost enough to drive her mad. From the darkened corner, she saw a figure emerge. Large, tall, balding... it was her tío. His mouth wasn't moving, but he laughed at her and told her she did this to herself. 

"Eres un bastardo y un perdedor..." She responded, knowing he was a thing of fantasy but called him a bastard and a loser. Once the words fell out, the door behind her opened again, and the same footsteps as before followed. 

"What did you say, doctor? I don't speak Spanish." Walton said, coming around to the metal chair with another takeaway container. 

"It wasn't meant for you." She answered honestly. 

"Talking to yourself's not healthy." He replied, pulling a slice of toast from the container and attempting to slip it into her mouth. Simone, for a moment, wanted to eat it and willingly took the bite before she chewed and grew disgusted. The lack of flavor and the smell of blood and rot made the taste unbearable. In response, she spat it onto the floor. "You're probably losing your mind because you're not getting nutrients. I need you better, doctor." 

"You only try to feed me fucking toast and beans. You clearly don't know how to care for another human being." Simone bit angrily. Walton tutted at her, 

"You're right. I didn't plan on keeping you this long, honestly." 

"Solo déjame morir," Simone replied. She told him to let her die. Not begging, but in a way that expressed her misery with the conditions. She started to believe she would be better off. 

Walton raised an eyebrow and got close to her face, "I already told you I don't understand." He whispered. She was getting under his skin with her use of another language. Walton ultimately wanted control but couldn't if he didn't know what she was saying. 

"Fuck you, inmate." She spat, emphasizing the first word. Walton began making a tsk sound at her, seeming disappointed that she wasn't cooperating. He reached into his pocket, and instead of the zapper, he pulled out a pocket knife. 

"I need you to work with me, doctor." He said before opening the knife and bringing the highly sharp blade across the skin of her right cheekbone. She winced away from the knife as the stinging grew worse, carving into the meat of her face and drawing enough blood to bead down to her jaw. Walton raised his other hand to the opposite end of her face, keeping it still. "You did this. Your scars are your own doing." 

[un-named-dumbfuckers]

Dior and Hevann lore, Diots side.

^ ^ This is the house where Diot grew up and Hevann was born. It is located on Dalna in the swamp lands.

Not long after the fall of the empire, Diot goes to Dalna to see if it is still standing, not really expecting it to still be there since it's been abandoned for around 25 years. But it still stands through earthquakes and rainstorms. it is mostly decrepit and a few rodent families living there but he is determined to have this place livable again. All their stuff is still there from when they left; Hevann's baby clothes, Diot's toys, unopened mail, and even some of their mother's jewelry stayed put. But the one thing that breaks Diot is finding the kalikori half broken on the floor. they didn't leave in a hurry, they were going to visit some of Mum's friends on Ryloth when the salvers took them.

Diot isn't in slavery as long as Hevann. he makes it out mostly because he wasn't much of an asset in any area the trade put him in because he was a drug addict and half-human. He wasn't worth much compared to Hevann. He told himself that Hevann was sold to a nice family and no longer needed him. but hearing a couple of slave wranglers on Ord-Mentell years back, when he first joined the rebellion, made the logical truth hit him like a freit ship.

"Sir, this one's a bit small don't ya think?" he hears from the slavers, a sigh of momentary relief before his blood ran cold "It'll grow."

those two words made his stomach drop out his ass hole and shoot back up into his throat. (yes he did find a way to get that kid away from the slavers)

how they got into the trade

The day the slavers came was the scariest day of either of their lives, for obvious reasons, but the Karazak are a ruthless bunch. their reputation for enslaving entire villages is infamous, and that's exactly what happened that day.

Thinking back is hard for Diot, as life starts to slow down after the fall of the empire he thinks about the years he wasted on booze and drugs, he'd had times of sobriety where things were nice but there were gaps in his memory where his addiction took center stage. unfortunately, all the drugs and alcohol never erased the memory of that night. Eme'tes finally asked one day while they sat on the dock.

"We'd been on Ryloth for a few days, staying with Momma's friend Aunti A'la and her wife. we went out playing with our cousins in the dunes, we weren't allowed to be out there but we went anyway. by the time we were coming back through the valley, there was so much smoke, we all ran back to see what was happening thinking it was just a house fire praying it wasn't anyone we knew." Eme'tes holds her husband's hand seeing the pain in his eyes as he tells this story. "everything was destroyed, a pile of bodies in the town center burning, all 5 of us were snatched and they put lek bands on us, we stood in a group till their ship came. I just stared at Momma's gold bracelet sticking out of that pile, melting off her wrist. Hevann tugged on my leku winning to get me up, he didn't talk for 3 years. I thanked the gods every day they let us stay together, I don't think I'd be here otherwise." Azreen jumped into his lap, wet from swimming was a welcome interruption.

The best parts of his life that he can remember being sober are with Hevann, the day He told Diot about their gender, the day they got matching tattoos, and the last time they saw each other crying in the dirty alleyway on the streets of Coruscant underbelly.

[shooting-love-arrows]

𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄! 𝟏𝟗𝟐𝟎'𝐬! 𝐑𝐈𝐂𝐇 𝐌𝐀𝐍

SYNOPSIS: 𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝟏𝟗𝟐𝟎'𝐬! 𝐑𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐌𝐚𝐧 basks in the fact that you're ofically his. PAIRING: 𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝟏𝟗𝟐𝟎'𝐬! 𝐑𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐌𝐚𝐧 x Reader (gender isn't impiled/mentioned/specified) Tw. buying reader, kidnapping, general lack of consent, possessive/obsessive behavior, power imbalance, blackmailing, threatening; A/N: Quick reminder. I do not support this kind of behaviour. This is just a piece of fiction and serves as enetrtaimnet purposes only.

𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝟏𝟗𝟐𝟎'𝐬! 𝐑𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐌𝐚𝐧 who had bought you.

Earlier that week, unknowingly to you, he visited a small apartment you and your family were occupying. 𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝟏𝟗𝟐𝟎'𝐬! 𝐑𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐌𝐚𝐧 was aware where and how you were living but it still mortified him how you – his precious darling – could be living like that. 

“You deserve better…more…” he repeated in his head every time he thought about you. Which was always. So it didn't come as a surprise to anyone he had decided to do something about it sooner than later.

Yes, 𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝟏𝟗𝟐𝟎'𝐬! 𝐑𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐌𝐚𝐧 greatly appreciated being so warmly welcomed by (his soon to be in-laws) your family. He even witnessed himself from where you got some of your traits from but business needed to be made.

𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝟏𝟗𝟐𝟎'𝐬! 𝐑𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐌𝐚𝐧 was straight forward from the start.

The deal was simple: he will pay your family a handsome sum of money monthly and you'll belong to him wholly. They'll completely disappear from your life, becoming nothing but a shadow of your past. In his head he knows you won’t need them anymore.

If not, their financial situation which was already bad will be even worse. 𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝟏𝟗𝟐𝟎'𝐬! 𝐑𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐌𝐚𝐧 is a man of power and has a lot of money. Your parents, knowing this, quickly understood that it's either willingly giving you away and getting the money or he will forcefully do so with them landing on a street, probably dead.

From the beginning, they had no choice.

"And here you are, my precious." 𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝟏𝟗𝟐𝟎'𝐬! 𝐑𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐌𝐚𝐧 whispered lovingly into your ear before gently laying you on the king size bed. You were put in a deep sleep by an alcohol you drank during his luxurious party (he threw to celebrate sealing the deal but shhh...) and strong sleeping pills he had added to one of your drinks. He made a mental note to pay the doctor he got them from an extra since you didn't even twitch the whole way you were carried here.

"I hope the bedroom will be to your liking." Your (captor) future husband carefully took off your shoes and laid them by your new bed. 𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝟏𝟗𝟐𝟎'𝐬! 𝐑𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐌𝐚𝐧 wanted you to be as comfortable as one person can be. Then he took the neatly folded blanket made from the highest quality silk and processed to snuggly tuck you in. When he finished, you looked like the bed could swallow you at any given moment.

𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝟏𝟗𝟐𝟎'𝐬! 𝐑𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐌𝐚𝐧 couldn’t help himself and brought his hand to your head, caressing it while staring at your face in adoration. "If not I'll change it however you like it."

Secretly, he hoped you'll be sharing a bedroom (especially bed) soon.

𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝟏𝟗𝟐𝟎'𝐬! 𝐑𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐌𝐚𝐧 sat down by your side, the softest mattress he could find easily dipping under him. He didn’t care that he was wrinkling his expensive party wear consisting of a black tuxedo imported straight from Italy that accentuated his lean body in every positive way. He was looking his absolutely best. For you.

"Oh how I love you, my precious." 𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝟏𝟗𝟐𝟎'𝐬! 𝐑𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐌𝐚𝐧 purred and his fingers ghosted over your cheek. He leaned down close enough to your face that your soft breaths were fanning him. Some of his slicked back hair fell down tickling your forehead. His mesmerizing eyes were gleaming with the passionate and deep rooted love he had for you. "You belong to me."

𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝟏𝟗𝟐𝟎'𝐬! 𝐑𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐌𝐚𝐧 sealed your fate with a peck on your lips.

All of the published posts on this account/blog belongs to @shooting-love-arrows. I do not consent to my works being: translated, stolen, published or reposted on this and other sites. Likes, reblogs, comments are highly appreaciated. Thank you.

[bat-the-misfit]

really want to write a murder mytery to escape from my problems

[bitchimasnake-sss]

hi lovely🥹 i'm sorry if i am being unreasonable, but may i ask, for more stories of stepbro!op monster trio? sorry to bother 🥹🫂

you guys are never unreasonable!!! unless, you like ask me to write actual incest cause frankly that goes beyond my (very lose) morals. but step-brothers? we love (fictional) step-brothers. you got it! like always, also adding ace and law!! hope you enjoy, pretty <3

☆thinkin' about: the monster trio, ace 'n law! vs familial relations, shh!

NOT PROOFREAD. JUST UTTERLY HORNY AND PERVERTED. tw: CONCEPT OF STEP-CEST, PORN LOGIC, DUB-CON. BIMBOFICATION. DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT. [i.e. if you do not feel okay reading such concepts, please scroll/click away. thankyou in advance.] cw: lots of porn logic. set in modern au. nsfw includes: a lot of overstimulation blowjob, cockwarming, penetration, cunnilingus, fingering, some bondage and use of toys and smex. lots of smex. MDNI OR I WILL ACTUALLY FIND YOU USING BLACK MAGIC. SIT THIS ONE OUT, KIDS. m.list

🍒monkey d. luffy: your favourite meal, 'nichan!

❤️monkey d. luffy is not quite sure which he loves more, you or food. because when he entered the kitchen in the dead of the night, he only really wanted to eat something to soothe his insatiable hunger. how lucky, he found you there instead! "l-luffy," you squirm under his tight grip on your thighs as his tongue swipes against your clit once more. when he looks up, his lips are drenched in everything you, "what?" "someone's gonna see." you mumble, trying feebly to pull at his hair and get him to part with your pretty pussy. but luffy just holds you down tighter on the kitchen counter, making sure your trembling cunt doesn't run away from him. he's still hungry, after all. he gives you a dopey smile, the kind that has you believing all of his false lies, "nobody's gonna come, pretty." he licks a soft stripe up your wet pussy, softly chuckling at his own joke, "i mean, you will." "nobody will?" you echo innocently, words falling down your wobbling lips so easily as he pulls your hips to himself and starts feasting like a man ravished. he moans against your folds, "nobody, i promise." his nose nudges against your clit so dangerously well, his tongue slides into your sickly sweet hole so easily and as he fucks up the muscle into you, you swear you feel his tongue stretch as if to hit you g-spot. "l-luffy, ohmygod," you practically feel yourself drip onto your step-mother's freakishly clean counter tops and half-heartedly try to think of a lie to tell her when she asks you about the stain. "tsk," you step-brother shakes his head so softly around your cunt, pulling back his drenched face just to nudge his digits into your hole instead, "don't worry about the mess, i'll clean it up all by myself." and from the way your step-brother was licking at you clit, drinking in every candied, syrupy essence out of you, you were sure he meant it. "just relax, and let me have my share." he husked into your bundle of nerves, right hand pumping and curling into your heat, "i got the rest, peach."

🍀roronoa zoro:

💚"zoro?" you ask so softly, and your voice echoes back towards you from the empty changing room. your step-brother had asked you to come see him once his practice was over. he claimed it was an emergency, and wouldn't you be a terrible younger step-sister if you ignored your brother in a dire situation like this? "in here." his voice echoes from the shower as you meekly find yourself walking to one of the closed stalls. calling out again, you stand in front of the stall, "zoro?" the door opens momentarily and you're pulled in by his sturdy hand on your wrist. as soon as your gain some semblance of sanity, you're face to face with your step-brother. the shower is still running in the background, and water droplets softly run down his ripped, naked body. "what's the emergency?" you ask softly but zoro brings his hands up to your lips, softly swiping his thumb across your pouty bottom lip before meeting your eyes. he rasps, "i had a shit match. 'm so angry right now, think you can make it better, pretty?" you nodded, knowing just what would cheer your brother up. after all, that's what a good step-sister should do! sinking down to your knees, you gaze up at him one last time before softly grabbing his aching, erect cock in your hands. zoro moans at your soft touches, and it spurs you to lick his tip leisurely. your hands move up and down over and over again as his tip slips past your lips. you taste his beading pre on your tongue and your thighs rub against each-other as you feel the wetness build up in your panties. "good girl." zoro husks, throwing his head back and guiding you to softly take more of him in. he tastes like he always does: sea-salt and something tangy, and you hum around the familiar taste, "jus' like that, so, so good for me." you hum around him again, gagging just a little bit as his tip kisses the back of throat, "r-really?" "of course." zoro hums, pulling you off his aching cock to let you breathe, "think ya can take it whole?" you nod with conviction and the green-haired jock smears his tip across your lips, smirking down at the way you part your mouth to let him line it easier, "cute." he guides you to take him past your glossy lips, "take it. take it whole."

🫐vinsmoke sanji:

💙"and how does this one taste?" sanji asks innocently, feeding you a bite from the cake he had baked, "good?" you nod, words wobbling, "'s r-eally good, sanji." "awh," your step-mother claps, "'m so glad you both are working hard together for the bake sale! alright, i'm off to the market. be good, both of you." "of course." sanji nods and you feel him press his erection onto you from behind. teasing you. telling you just what was waiting for you. you were lucky that your lower halves were hidden by the kitchen island otherwise your step-mother would have seen that sanji had his hands down your shorts, teasing your clit while pretending he was such a saint. as soon as you both hear the woman slam the front-door and leave, sanji drops his face into the crook of your neck, breathing in your scent like a man crazed. his forefinger and thumb pinch your clit so meanly and you buck into him as a result, "s-sanji." "don't you think you should thank me?" your step-brother rasps, pulling your folds apart so he could thumb your clit better, "i helped you bake for your sale." "th-thankyou." you stutter at the way his fingers keep circling your sensitive nub, "how should i... thank you?" "let me make you cum." he hums definitively, slipping his hand further to let one finger inside you, "ah, you always feel this good. 's almost addictive." "it... it is?" you buck into his hand, desperately rutting to get the friction on your clit from him. but sanji never let you beg, ofcourse. he riles you up instead, "what's that, baby? want more?" and the blonde shoves another finger without you nodding. curling his digits, he moans at the way your gummy walls clench around him, how your wetness was dripping down his hand and wetting your short, how you brought your own up hand to your tits to play with your perky nipples. "you're so cute." sanji hums, pumping into you without faltering, "come on, pretty girl. cum all over me. let me taste you."

🦋portgas d. ace:

🧡"tsk, wrong again?" your older step-brother softly shakes his head. if it weren't for the slight smirk in his tone, you would have thought he was seriously disappointed in you. "'m sorry." you mumble, hips squirming as as he wraps his muscled arms around your waist to hold you still. he rests his head in the crook of your neck, softly whispering to you, "y'know i had to skip hanging out with my friends to help you do this assignment. and now? you're getting all of them wrong." "i cannot focus..." your voice trembles and he laughs in return, "really? why not?" he hums, "you know how busy i am, right?" and you did! you knew he was busy with his own things and asking for his help over this uni assignment was stupid... but, he was always so good at teaching, that you had to ask him. "tell me..." he wonders aloud, "why cannot you focus?" but how could you? you were stuffed full of your step-brothers cock. his length stayed unmoving inside you, and the way you could feel every little vein against your velvety walls. he was so mean! he said he would fuck you once you finished your assignment, until them let him cockwarm in you. but it had been so long and he was still unmoving!! "ah, well... you know the punishment." he whispers in mock distress, and your pussy trembles against his length in anticipation. his hand comes down on your clit. a harsh, little slap that has you dripping down his length and wet both your clothes. "try again." ace says definitively, "c'mon, you're surely not as dumb as you're acting." and then, something clicks. "hah, unless..." your step-brother's fingers come down to tease your exposed, overstimulated clit again, "you're purposefully getting them wrong because you want me to do..." he slaps your cunt again, "this?" "no!" you shake your head, voice growing even weaker, "i- i didn't. promise." but he just grins, "shit. if you liked that so much, should've told me sooner, princess."

🪻trafalgar d. water law:

💜"you know i need to practice, right?" your step-brother repeats and you nod in return, "i... i know. don't worry, law." you knew he was a med student, and you knew how important it was for him to be able to understand the human body from a close, physical point of view! and especially, for him to better examine women, he needed to understand them well, didn't he? and well, that's where you came in. you lay in his bed, your arms and legs tied to the leg posts as law peers down at you, "let me just see how you react, okay?" you nod and law brings the buzzing toy to your glistening cunt. as the vibrator comes in contact with your exposed clit, you involuntarily jerk your hips away, eyes clenching shut in delight. your hips stutter all-too-pathetically and law takes the toy away to note something down. your tattooed doctor looks down at you as if scrutinizing you, "hm, feel good?" and you can't help but nod desperately, "y-yes." "then, tell me." there's this sadistic glint in his eyes, "i told you, talk to me through it. how else would i know how you react, right?" "i-i'm sorry." you catch your wobbling lips under your teeth, a sorry expression plastered to your face as law slowly brings the toy back to your anticipating body. "f-feels good, law." you stutter as the toy constantly nags against your sensitive nub, and law nods as if he's serious, "does it? describe it better for me, could you?" "it feels..." your words get stuck in your throat, eyes widening at the lewd things you're about to say. you avert your gaze, "i- don't wanna say such things." "oh?" law quirks an eyebrow, his lips pressed into a thin line as if unveiling his disappointment. your stomach drops at his reaction. after all, what kind of step-sister were you?! he mumbles gravely, "but it's for my study, y'know that. there's no shame in helping your older step-brother, right?" "i-" your step-brother gives you a re-assuring nod, and your voice trembles as he teases you, "it f-feels good... like my body's gonna explode, an-and it's good." "it's good?" he repeats and you nod, trying to rest your eyes on him despite your squirming body, "y-yes." "that's a relief." he huffs, pressing the toy against your clit harshly now, "i'm glad my girl's having fun." law exchanges the toy for his thumb instead, giving you a soft smile, "let me see how this feels for you."

a/n: hahahaha I SWEAR IM SANE!!! I SWEAR!!! yes, my digital footprint goes crazy, thanks for asking. don't ask again. also. the feminine urge to write the all of these drabbles longer and without step-cest... hm, anyone on board?? anyways, glad to see you having fun you filthy, filthy person :// m.list

[brucewaynehater101]

Tim with hannaki disease

spending his childhood choking on flowers

Barely able to breathe rejection after rejection

Jason is attacking him at the tower and he can’t stop coughing out flowers

when dick gives Damian Robin, Tim leaves the cave spitting out petals

imagine if he died of suffocation during the Bruce quest

Fuck. I love hanahaki disease.

Tw: death, blood, asphyxiation, fictional disease, dead body description, gore

For those of y'all unaware, it's a completely fictional disease where having unrequited love results in the person growing flowers in their chest. It's usually romantic, but I prefer the platonic versons (especially child-parent angst, holy fuck).

I've seen two types of hanahaki:

The love is actually unrequited

The person only perceives the love as being unrequited

Either way, the progression is as follows:

Person coughs up one petal

They start coughing up more and usually blood

They cough up an entire blossom

They die trying to cough up the entire flower (blossom and stem)

There are four outcomes to hanahaki disease, depending on what rules you are working with:

Love becomes requited

Person dies

They have a surgery to remove their ability to have feelings

They lose (voluntarily or not) their memories about their unrequited love

Some people play with flower meanings of the petals being coughed up. I fucking love those versions so much.

Let's get into the AU! The timeline is mine to fuck around with, so excuse any non-canon progressions.

~~~~

Tim has chronic hanahaki disease from his parents. They visit often enough to quell the worst symptoms and mitigate the damage, but they don't stick around enough (or show enough constant attention) for the petals to go away.

Janet once asked Tim if he'd like to get the surgery. Tim said no. Janet respected that choice and never asked again even though Tim was like nine at the time. It also becomes a fear of his. He wakes up in cold sweat at the phantom idea of just not being able to love anyone. It terrifies him, even if the feeling of asphyxiation is the only other option.

When Janet dies and Tim becomes Robin, he does his best to hide his condition from Bruce. It worsens, from the way Tim adores and loves the Bats, but Tim manages.

It's a rough few years, but slowly, the ice begins to melt. The Waynes show Tim more and more affection. YJ also shower him in so much care to the point that Tim has days of uninterrupted breathing.

It's a novel but welcome feeling.

Jack waking up from the coma complicates shit. His condition worsens again, but it's manageable.

Until Tim's sixteenth birthday.

The teen will never admit, but that test nearly fucking killed him. Bruce never finds out how close he was to killing his Robin, but Tim knows. He'll never forget how thorns scraped along his throat at the idea that he can't trust anyone. He'll never rid himself of the intimate knowledge of how blossoms taste in his mouth and the sickly sweet smell of blood mixed with flower petals.

Tim has to quit Robin, for his safety, health, and as a "fuck you" to Bruce, but realizes he can't keep in contact with Dick, Alfred, or Barbara without it. He can't contact his team.

He has to go back, so he does.

Tim's not sure if it's better or worse that Bruce didn't know about the hanahaki. If the man did, would he still have done the test? Due to him never showing remorse or guilt for his actions, the teen doesn't know.

The question pesters him even when his dad finds out about Robin.

It plagues him through Steph becoming Robin and dying.

It festers into his bones when, while wearing those same damn colors, he hears his father die.

That is one or many reasons "Uncle Eddie" was created.

Tim can't quite trust Bruce, but he finds himself still loving the father-like figure in his life. He finds himself forgiving him. He leans into the hair ruffles, shoulder pats, and gruff words of affection. He lets himself be loved.

Then, an undead asshole in a gleaming red bucket comes to kick Tim's ass. The teen can't help but laugh at the way his life bounces between breathing and dying at the drop of a hat.

He's just barely able to hide the flowers from both Red Hood and the Titans.

A little assassin appears, and each attack brings a petal.

Each new death hampers Tim's ability to breathe. Tim tries, but it's so fucking hard. How is he supposed to live without them?

With the ticklish scrape of petals, Tim doesn't think he's supposed to.

Bruce isn't dead. Tim knows, with every fiber of his being, that Bruce can't be dead. Tim won't survive if he is.

Even if Tim loses everything, even if these damn fucking flowers consume him, at least his death will have a purpose.

That's what he tells himself as he lies in a pool of blood beneath the stars. The sand at his back is soft in comparison to the stem piercing his throat and tongue. The sound of his choking is joined by the bubbling wheezing of Pru.

Ra's peers down at the body already set with rigor mortis. Tim's jaw is pried apart by a bouquet of yellow carnations dripping in blood.

The demon head hums at the sight, a dangerous gleam to his eyes. With the flick of a hand, two assassins grab the young detective's corpse. The other three bodies are taken as well.

Tim's eyes fling open as the teen gasps for air.

It's wrong. It's wrong. It's all wrong. He's empty.

He's surrounded in green.

Oh fuck.

For awhile, Tim just soaks in the soft expansion of his lungs. He marvels at their capability.

He can't remember a time when he's been able to breathe so easily. It's enchanting and allots the teen a giddy sort of relief.

Through the destruction of both the Spiders and the LoA, he finds himself taking small moments to just breathe. It's a simple joy he can't help but partake in.

Tim logically knows there's a price. His breaths cost him, though he doesn't know their price. He should be dead and buried within the flowers.

He is neither.

He is alive. He is free (from the petals. It takes him a little bit to become free of Ra's).

Tim brushes aside these valid and alarming concerns to focus on his goals: escape, take down Ra's, and derail whatever retaliation occurs.

So that's what Tim does. He ignores the insistent sense of wrongness and focuses on the task at hand. He coordinates his friends and family. He faces down Ra's. He gets kicked out of a window.

With a grim smile, his body goes lax and his eyes flutter shut

He's done.

When Tim springs up from unconsciousness, Steph's voice reassures him he's safe. She tells him he's in the batcave.

The tension to bleeds from his body as Damian mutters a demand. Tim's eyes dart from Robin to Batgirl to Batman (Dick) to Alfred.

That sinking feeling of wrongness returns.

Dick's eyes are trained on the teen as he asks Tim, "How did you know I'll be there to save you?"

It's obvious the man is worried. It's obvious he's so fucking glad he caught his younger brother.

The lie falls from Tim's lips as smooth as any truth, "You're my brother, Dick. You'll always be there for me."

Dick's face brightens with fond relief.

Tim watches. He observes the reactions of his older brother. He catalogs the effect of his words on the man he's admired and loved for thirteen years.

He notes all of this.

And he feels nothing.

[konigsblog]

TW/CW; RAPE/NON-CON, KIDNAPPING, DARK FICTION — DEAD DOE: DO NOT EAT.

kidnapper, rapist-simon and his desire to see you on your knees, gagging on his lengthy cock.

he adores raping your body quite often for some form of release, whether that's for pleasure or out of frustration and aggression, treating you as if you're nothing but a pathetic, little bastard for his own pleasure while degrading you for every tear that rolls down your face, only causing more tears to brim in your waterline.

as much as he enjoys brutalising your asshole and that slick cunt, nothing compares to the tight sensation of your gummy throat around his cock, your soft lips wrapped around his meaty base, and that cock drunk, stupid expression plastered all over your silly face that he mocks and taunts.

he records his violent and merciless behaviour to watch back and jerk off to while in private. he takes polaroid photographs for his own benefit and pleasure, to admire the sight of your tears with his dick stuffed down your throat. he forces you to watch as your parents and friends sob out for your return, for your safety while he carries out with his brutal actions.

simon obsesses over the sight of your mascara running down your tear-stained cheeks, mixed with your spit and tears. he can't get enough of the gagging noises that flow from your throat at every hard thrust, how eventually you can't control the wetness inside of your panties that dampen the fabric.

although, eventually you begin to develop stockholm syndrome after an entire year without any form of human interaction and begin to yearn for his sickening and wicked form of "affection" and "love", because that's all you know.

simon riley claims that what he's doing is the best for a dumb thing like yourself, that your job is to bend over and present yourself to him once he's back from a rough and agonising long deployment, to appreciate the warmth of your holes and that perfect mouth.

[nocontextlestat]

(TW for everything)

*in lestat’s voice*

so, let’s talk about our gorgeous murder gremlin armand. in the books, he canonically:

- burned his own paris coven alive after lestat destroyed their centuries old belief (TVL)

- let louis kiII his second paris coven (IWTV)

- tortured nicki with his coven while he was still human, because he was angry at lestat (TVL part 4, ch 2)

- tortured lestat to force him to say claudia’s name as the guilty vampire (TVL, epilogue, ch 1)

- mentally manipulated and vampirically raped lestat (TVL, part 5, ch 1)

- threw lestat off a tower when he came to him to beg for help (TVL, epilogue, ch 1)

- told louis that lestat was dead and didn’t tell the truth for decades (IWTV, part 4)

- told lestat that louis was dead and didn’t tell him the truth for decades again (IWTV-TVL)

- mentally manipulated louis to make him turn madeleine into a vampire (IWTV, part 3)

- telepathically kept telling claudia to die/kill herself/leave louis to himself (IWTV, part 3)

- tortured daniel for days (QOTD, part 1, ch 4)

- drew daniel to absolute insanity for a decade (QOTD, part 1, ch 4)

- locked nicki up and cut off his hands so that he couldn’t play his violin like crazy anymore (TVL, part 6, ch 3)

- scalped his human victim because he was curious (TVA, part 1)

and so on. and you’re mad that they— *checks notes* ruined his character on the show by making him the villain? am i correct? he is literally one of the most iconic villains in literature. also, shouldn’t we be glad that they didn’t show him actually torturing claudia by cutting her head off and stitching it on a woman’s body before the trial? while she was still alive? (TVA part 2)

why do you need him to be a saint to be able to love him? he should be a lovable character to the viewers despite and because of the stuff he has done, no? are you sure you're built to consume gothic fiction?

"what about the things lestat did?" i literally made a list of lestat's crimes and never shut up about it and you're yet again proving my point. this is not an attack on armand. he's my favorite right after lestat. i wrote fact threads on twitter for both of them. i know my material.