#what’s the point of an unlived life

[mantis-a-shrimp]

It’s “is life even worth it” hours featuring my constant companion DPDR. All signs are pointing to no.

[tyrannuspitch]

the government should pay me a living wage to write niche fanfiction very very very slowly. i am providing a vital cultural service

[anaalnathrakhs]

hjgjhggjgjgh forgot i can't even go to the psych ward if there was magically room for my non urgent case. my mom's birthday is this weekend, and my aunt and grandma stay at our house for the following week. i need to be there for the birthday, and then i have to seem normal and present at normal hours. AND THEN IT'S THE HOLIDAYS.

[psychotrenny]

I think one of Imperialism's most evil strategies is the national scale torture you'll see inflicted on countries that dare to dream of freedom. Like it's not just about overthrowing the anti-imperialist regime itself, but utterly breaking the very social, economic and in turn psychological foundations it's built upon. Prolonged periods of destruction that are as systematic as they are sadistic with the aim of making life unlivable until the government either collapses or gives in, accepting whatever concessions are forced upon them as the nation is remoulded into an dependent and obedient little neocolony.

Sometimes an imperialist power will act directly to achieve this (just take the gratuitous and deliberate destruction of civil infrastructure during the bombings of Yugoslavia and Iraq), but the preferred strategy is to employ local proxies. Groups like RENAMO in Mozambique or the Contras of Nicaragua. Bands of reactionaries, traitors and general desperadoes are gathered up, trained, armed and transported over the border at the expense of the Imperialists and their local collaborators. These armed groups have no interest in build mass support, of representing an alternative way of life. Their only purpose is destruction; killing, torturing, looting, burning whatever they can in order to bring their country to its knees. Frequently targeting important nodes in the networks that sustain the nation and the people's faith in it (bridges, rail depots, factories, hospitals and schools) but ultimately happy to attack whatever they can; every house burned or person tortured contributes to the climate of terror and corrosion of government credibility. Because when they kill these groups don't like to do it cleanly; their attacks generate countless reports immolation, disembowelment, victims hacked to pieces and left to bleed. But when possible they prefer to leave their victims alive and capable of further spreading their terror, inflicting the most vicious sorts of rape and mutilation on a mass scale

It's not just just evil for the sake of evil mind you. The cruelty has a point; human destruction to accompany the physical. Every person killed is someone who can no longer contribute to the development of the nation, while even living yet physically and psychologically broken victim places further strain on their country's increasingly fragile support systems. Meanwhile the terror of these actions spreads the impact beyond their immediate victims. The murder and torture of peasants makes the survivors too scared to go back into their fields, slowly starving the nation as the rural economy grind to a halt. The gruesome deaths of traders and travelers leaves the survivors too terrified to continue their business, shutting down the distributive networks that make national development and often life itself possible. The terror unleashed on foreign professionals can prompt the survivors to flee and discourage newcomers from arriving, depriving the underdeveloped economic and education systems of the skilled workers they need to improve or even function. And every broken body, ever broken mind, is proof of the government's weakness and ineptitude; a humiliating failure to protect their own people that demoralises supporters and empowers dissenters. The motivated sadism of these terrorist attacks is a microcosm of the motivated sadism displayed by their Imperialist backers

But why go to all this trouble? Why not just send in the paratroopers or organise a coup to end those troublesome regimes quickly? Sometimes it's a matter of possibility. As great as they are, the powers of Imperialist nations are not unlimited. All manner of constraints (domestic unrest, international condemnation which advantages dangerous rivals, the simple financial and human costs of such operations) limit what actions are viable or desirable. This is especially significant when the targets are motivated and disciplined anti-imperialists with a base of deep-rooted popular support, the sort of regime that won't go down to a simple commando raid or bribe to the right general. But sometimes, it's not enough to merely cut down a dissenting government; you have to salt the earth and make sure nothing similar ever grows back. I'll finish with the words of an anonymous Jesuit priest, talking about Nicaragua yet in terms widely relevant enough to be published in John Saul's conclusion to A Difficult Road: The Transition to Socialism in Mozambique (1985):

In Chile the Americans made a mistake. They cut off the revolution too abruptly. They killed the revolution but, as we can see from recent developments there, they didn't kill the dream. In Nicaragua, they're trying to kill the dream

[yandere-sins]

Yan-Poll #16

Your stalker has a severe problem.

That's the conclusion you came to as you opened the door for the fifth time that day to another mailman handing you three more packages. Your living room had become unlivable, a space cluttered with cartons and the unopened remains of packages. At some point, you stopped opening them, but now they were collecting dust and destroying the comfort in your own home.

At first, curiosity had gotten the better of you. Amongst inappropriate gifts like underwear and... toys, there had actually been some useful presents. You secretly kept all the gifts that had been on your to-buy for a while and openly threw away the disgusting ones. You knew better than to accept the stalker's gifts, but since they were valuable, you couldn't help but hold on to some of them.

That was your mistake.

But looking at the neatly stacked packages, spreading from wall to wall, floor to ceiling, you realized your stalker had lost all control. You noticed brand names on the brown packages that you had only glanced at briefly while scrolling through your phone—expensive ones, too. At this point, you feared you couldn't look at anything anymore without it inevitably being sent to your home. You thought you had this situation under control, but apparently, you hadn't.

>> did you like the new necklace?

Heaving a deep sigh you looked at the countless messages, a new one popping up right on time of the delivery. Whoever he was, he was always watching. Though you ignored his constant string of texts—asking about your day, how you were feeling, confessing his love to you, wondering if you would wear his latest gifts—you knew this couldn't go on for much longer.

<< please stop

>> you finally responded :)

<< this needs to stop, I don't need all this junk!

>> but do you like it? i know you kept some of them

Biting your lip, you cursed yourself. Of course he'd notice that you didn't discard everything. That probably only encouraged your stalker to keep sending you more and more, wherever he got the money to afford it. Part of you thought, "Whatever! If he wants to blast through all that money, so be it! Might as well enjoy it!" but what about your morals?

You've been fighting so hard to live a normal life despite having this stalker. The police had given up since he was just too good at hiding his tracks, but he seemed to know everything and always be present in your life. If you let him continue like this, who knows what kind of trouble—legally and morally—you'd get into. What if this was his way of making you dependent and comfortable? This person had no qualms about intruding on your life, but what if he finally snapped? What would happen then? How much worse could this situation get?

<< anyway this needs to stop NOW

>> fine. let's make a deal: i'll send you one more gift >> if you hate it, i'll stop. but if you like it...

<< then what?

>> you'll see ;)

Your finger hovering over the keyboard of your phone, you thought about what your stalker could possibly mean. There was a good chance it would be a gift you liked, and he'd feel confident in the choices he made regarding you. But at the same time, what if it was a god-awful present? What if it was downright horrible? How far would he go, and could you possibly stomach the consequences of his actions because you allowed him to?

<< what if I refuse?

There was no answer this time. It was strange. You were starting to really get paranoid that he was plotting something terrible.

(Reasoning and discussions welcome! ♥)

[selarina]

thinking about marrying crown prince!gojo and you're not naive on your first night. you made it a point not to be— you made your handmaiden sneak in some articles with illustrations that had rattled something within you. they were strange and some were even gruesome but you were prepared.

but when the night came and you changed out from your heavy wedding dress to your dainty sheer nightgown, the prince merely walked in and offered you his robe— baffled, you took it and covered yourself. partly, because you were cold but mostly because you felt insecure. maybe he didn't find you attractive enough?

but that night was the first night the two of you just spoke. he told you stories you'd never heard before— he was unlike any man with so many adventures to tell. it made you a bit sad for yourself, for your unlived life. so little and narrow, with nothing interesting to offer him in return.

but he asked anyway— took such keen interest in your little and narrow world. he asked about the garden you liked, the colour of the swing in it, the flowers you picked, the first time you fell, and the first boy you liked. it was all a bit too much for you — too genuine. you think you could actually love this man.

that night you didn't undress each other. you didn't have sex. you wouldn't for a long time since that day but you were strangely okay with that, despite what custom demanded.

that night after your wedding, the two of you just talked and talked and sipped on wine till you fell asleep next to each other.

some where in the middle of the night, your bodies would find each other, all clothed, but you wouldn't know since he'd be the one to wake up first.

he would slowly find a way to leave your arms without waking you, and then he'd spend the first half of the early morning staring at who he thought was the most beautiful future queen this kingdom could've had.

[guided-by-the-skies]

Friday 13th Astro Notes FEAR SPECIAL

It's Friday 13th december ... s p o o k y !!! What do different placements say about how you relate to fear?

🕷 obvs the big one here is gonna be pluto. Pluto aspects really show how you relate to fear, regardless of what they are with

🕸 lots of disharmonious pluto aspects like squares and oppositions indicate a challenging relationship with fear. meanwhile harmonious pluto aspects can mean you are comfortable with fear and managing it

💀 tricky placements in the 4th house such as mars conjunct pluto can indicate having to grow up fast and a lot of real/adult fears at a young age like divorce, loss of parents etc

☠️ meanwhile emorional pluto aspects such as with your moon, venus, or pluto aspects involving cancer or the 4th house indicate lota or common childhood fears e.g. monsters under the bed, alien invasion etc

👾 south node in 12th or 8th house can manifest as unusual fears that you don't know they origin of. they can very often be from a past life.

🕷 vesta transiting 4th house placements especially 4th house neptune, pluto, mars, or saturn can add a spiritual element to fears

🕸 those with disharmonious mars saturn aspects can develop fears from organised religion and can benefit from freer forms of spirituality or less organised forms

💀 those with disharmonious saturn aspects in the 1st house can end up identifying with their fears to the point it becomes overwhelming e.g. self talk involves 'I am scared of X therefore Inwill never be able to X'

☠️ ANY form of malefic or disharmonious aspects in the 8th house e.g. mars pluto, saturn venus (can be malefic), mars uranus conjunctions or even oppositions and squares where only one planet is in the 8th house - you can have quite a turbent development of fear, fears that change often, arise and disappear quickly etc

👾 conversely those with these aspects involving the south node especially in a T square with south node or e.g. mars opposition pluto conjunct south node can have VERY tenacious and long lasting fears that are difficult to get rid of

🕷 uranus in the fourth house can have a rocky childhood whrre many fears develop that influence them in adulthood but may also provide room for growth. chiron is a verh important asteroid for these people

🕸 chiron trine uranus or trine neptune can be great at integrating fear into their life. can be very good at shadow work and can see fear as a challenge that they manage to overcome

💀 chiron opposition neptune, uranus, saturn, or mars can have their response to fear interrupted or made more complicated, for example, old fears are retriggered in shadow work. these people should go kinder on themselves during shadow work and practice more self care around the full or new moon

☠️ those with chiron or uranus in the 3rd house, especially when aspecting mercury in any way, have great opportunities to practice working with or overcoming their fears especially 'mundane' day to day ones like public speaking

👾 your chiron in any house where a partner or friend has a planet opposition or square pluto, mars, saturn, or uranus - you tend to end up soothing this person's fears or coming to their aid - whether fear of monsters or even being unlived or unworthy...

[themareverine]

Toy Soldiers | part one | worst!wolverine x namelessfem!OC

synopsis: He was just a one of those fast food kid’s meal toys from 1993��key word, was. now he’s Hugh Jackman incarnate, standing in the master bedroom of her midwestern apartment, lost in time and infinity. she’s gotta get him back to his world, where he’s the worst Wolverine, where he belongs—or, maybe not?

warnings: Indian in the Cupboard themes (iykyk), fluff, AU, not entirely sure what else at this point, nameless!femOC with blue eyes could be interpreted as reader, mentions of a best friend named Rose, etc, literally based on this silly little toy I rescued and now have crafted extensive lore for.

a/n: i didn't ask for this to become a multi-chapter thing. i really didn't, ok? this got away from me, but i really love these two so much already. this was fun to write, and she's a fun character to develop. worst!wolverine is just occupying too much brain space.

MASTERLIST | NAVIGATION

Dreaming in color is a pro, when you weigh it against the cons—usually.

She’d been dreaming in movie-like quality since she was a kid, could pinpoint almost to the exact timespace when she first realized her dreams were akin to Hollywood flicks roving about her brain like Spielberg classics.

She’d been six, maybe seven. A hopeless crush on Wednesday night’s Steve Irwin had somehow twisted the innocent power of her brain—the only, almost divine dreamstate visit to Australia she’d ever taken. Still she can taste the hot air, thick with sweat and arid desert, from the back of an obscure Land Rover, jostled and bouncing along forgotten roads and who-knows trails. Eyeballing open sky and endless outback sands, the Crocodile Hunter and his darling wife, Terri, vivid imaginations to a childhood fantasy yet, mostly, unlived. 

And ever since this God-granted, she’d always assumed it was a gift and thus titled it so, she’d been dreaming vividly most of the last twenty four years. Forgetting her dreams was the exception, black and white—unheard of. Tasting, speaking, reading, touch was wrapped up in REM and weighted blankets, vicarious life she’d never, really, lived in her waking moments—everything from the supernatural to gut-wrenching. Martial bliss and familial tragedy. Combat she could only ever hope wasn’t accurate. Fame and fortune. R rated filmstrips that left her stomach light and fluttery every morning, promptly, at 4:45—alarm shrieking in her ear, viscerally ripping her back to the land of the living with frothing teeth, the Greatest Showman custom alarm all but a slap in the face.  

It’s, as usual, dark when the numbers on her phone roll over to 4:45—sucked out of a dream like the vacuum of space itself lays claim to her soul, her eyes flutter open heavily to stare at the alarm. Hugh Jackman would never be so unwelcome as he is now, blaring from little iPhone speakers—she manages to lift a noodle-esque arm to slap at the noise hanging out in the darkness around the vicinity of her nightstand. 

Fingers locate the smooth screen, swipe away the prompt for snooze. Roll over. Hand over her eyes—it’s Saturday The day after Friday, her first day alone all week. World beyond is closed away behind walls and empty schedules, priorities otherwise left-fielded for such days as this.  

Warmth simmers beneath heavy weighted covers, trapped against her body. Clawing up through her mattress, threatening to pull her back into oblivion. Pharaoh’s hadn’t been so mummified, entombed as she is now, but that’s the beauty of a queen mattress left unshared—solidarity. Armies only wish they held such control over real estate as she did these sheets, this bed frame—very little could remove her from the ecstasy that is this Eden, the one place that did not require compliance, performance, untenable perfection.

Here she could rot for hours, engage in adventure that the earth would never understand—that man would jeer. 

Heaving a sigh melts her deeper into her astronaut-designed mattress, stomach suddenly flatter than it’s ever been as gently fingers tease at the strip of skin exposed. Back arching, stirring nearly-paralyzed muscle. Toes skip over warm satin sheets as she navigates to her side, arm tucking beneath her pillow. Drawing blankets to her chin, another deep breath closes her eyes, shuts off her brain—all but ready to return to dreamstate, the screen on her phone illuminates again—diiiiing.

Light explodes, lighting up the area of her nightstand just enough to give purpose to her surroundings. 

Nose scrunching in an effort to unhear and forget the notification, her eyes slowly pull open as she considers the phone. It’s her best friend, she knows it is—Rose is up early. All the time. Taking care of her little family at the base of the Teton mountains, as if this is Little House on the Prairie and such things were the norm.

Her inability to ignore anything from Rose props her up on an elbow, has her reaching for her phone—thumbs the passcodes. Opens the text, eyes scanning the message from last night. 

It’s a photo message. She’d sent it last night, proudly showing off the latest addition to her childhood nostalgia collection—a thrift store find, the little McDonald’s toy is hardly noteworthy. Scuffed and worn, it had seen adventures, surely, in its pre-her-possession life. Surprise had knocked her between the eyes like a stone when she’d managed to spy 1993 printed on the little action hero’s foot, in barely-there legalese. 

At thirty-one years old, one may have expected the little five-cent made-in-Taiwan to end up in the landfill, rotting alongside near-radioactive diapers or kill-the-turtles plastic straws.

Nope, not this one—Marvel’s very own little Wolverine. Dolled up in a cute little sci-fi bronze suit, ready for a fight. Retractable claws, the hardly-scuffed cowl, a proud encircled X in all its glory—wrapped up in a little sandwich baggie marked down at the thrift. She’d almost felt sorry for him in that cute aggressive way. 

And almost giddy at the fluke cocktail of age and condition, she’d pocketed the little guy. A pleased smile, her very own little Wolvie nestled in the leathers of her jacket, then the bottom of her purse. He’d adventured to work with her accidentally on Friday, plastic eyes watching her pass the time at the office from his little perch beside her keyboard and Starbucks. Almost had forgotten him, poor thing—he’d landed on her nightstand among the other needs-put-away items for the weekend, proudly standing in his posed little battle stance.

All he needed was matching Sabretooth, maybe Magneto, and he’d be good to go. 

Looky who came home with *me*, shot over to Rose with a little thrill, a Snapchat-like photo of him perched alongside her night cream and phone charger. More of a proud sentinel guarding her bedside table than anything, she’d regarded him playfully, like a child—had told him to close his eyes when she’d undressed. Had asked him about a movie to watch in bed as she managed hip-opening exercises, relaxing breathing techniques. All but kissed him goodnight, promising to get him settled among her other collectable childhood wonders in the morning.

After coffee and cardio, wouldn’t Hugh be proud. 

Rose’s LOL text all but smiles back at her, and she’s a little cross-eyed from the brightness of her phone. It improves when her eyes skate away from the phone, to the little Wolverine—wait.

Brow furrowing, his absence from the nightstand sparks more panic than she’d be willing to admit in therapy—she bends over the side of her bed, fingertips skating the floor in search of her little plastic wonder. Nothing but plush carpet, abandoned laundry she’d failed to relocate to her drawers—her phone slips from her hand as she hauls herself over the bedside, to peer beneath.

It’s dark, duh, and she fumbles upside-down with the flashlight on her phone. Sun levels of intense light, she makes arching passes beneath her bed, but no dice. Nada. Zilch–zippo on the Wolverine toy. 

“Well this is just a little ridiculous,” her mumble rolls off a dry tongue, from messy hair as she works herself back up from hanging over the bedside. 

Forcing off her weighted blankets has never felt more urgent, importance spiking her blood with ill-placed adrenaline she doesn’t understand—why she cares so much about a little three-decade-old McDonald’s toy she’ll never understand, but the thought of him lost in the abyss of her house is more unsettling, again, than she’d admit in therapy.

Legs swinging over the bed, she plucks her glasses from the tray on her nightstand, grabbing for the light robe dragging the floor from one of the nightstand’s knobs. 

Wrestling a steer would’ve been easier than un-inside-outing the garment, still hazy and half-asleep and wholly uncaffeinated, but she manages. Another scout under her bed reveals that, no, little Wolvie isn’t among the dust bunnies and lint of her carpeted under-bed floor.

Brow furrowing, her glasses slip down her nose as she hauls herself back to her feet, sleep-stiff muscles protesting as she massages the back of her neck. 

Hands on her hips, she reaches for her phone. “Had I known you had teleportation powers, little Lo, I’d have sold you off to NASA—come on,” Triggering the flashlight on her phone again, she dives to check between the headboard and mattress, to see if her Logan lookalike decided to magically dive headfirst into the almost-abyss—

“—you make a habit of talkin’ to open air, girlie?” 

Two things happen immediately in her body. 

First. Alarm jumps up in her chest like a devil, deep claws sinking into the meat of her chest only to rip away any sense of safety taking up residence behind her ribs, in her bones. Heart forgetting to throb, blood all but stands still in her veins, asystole in her arteries—she can feel the lining of her stomach twist into a viper-like coil so cold, she fears frostbite has set into her organs.

Fear knocks hard on the door of her sternum, ripping the wind from her lungs. Terror opens up her vocal cords and bludgeons a song from her throat, but it’s so dry in her apartment that the fleshy membranes of her mouth have all but become cragged Sahara sands. Tongue swelling to the size of her fist, she fears she’ll choke on it. Forces it against the back of her bottom teeth, jaw clenching with enough force to break open the world. 

Legs somehow managing to propel her up onto her mattress, across the bed, to the farthest corner of the space. Cold sweat raises to a dance across her skin, satin sleeping pants clinging to the flesh of her thighs as sapphire eyes attack the figure cutting through the threshold of her door—hands low and open, in placating surrender.

Brow furrowed with canyon deep lines, dark eyes flick over her frame as she takes a step back for each of the ones he cautiously makes into the room. Invading her privacy, an unwelcome intruder. 

“Easy, sweetheart,” early morning gravels his words, which hang low in baritones not at all unfamiliar, “‘m not gonna hurt you. You breathin’ ok?” Genuine concern passes through his eyes, deep and alive, but—not in a bright way. The corner of his lip tips up, “Don’t mean to scare ya, pretty.” 

Pretty? Sweetheart? Who the hell is this—?

Any familiarity his face holds is lost to the bite of adrenaline, slavering teeth trenching into the back of her brain. Seeming to lap at the spinal fluid all but bubbling down the length of her back. Chest heaving with effort, she fears her ribs might break. Cardiac muscle behind her chest bones all but explodes with every heavy heartbeat, reminding her to stay alive. That she, still, is living. 

Stomach sour, twisting like corded steel, she lunges for the foot of her bed—snatched the first thing she can retrieve. Face all but a blazing inferno of heat, nails all but pike into the soft plush of a stuffed animal. Her favorite. Or, rather, was—now little more than a weapon, it stands between her and the invasion like a fortress. 

“What the hell are you doing here,”she challenges, taking a half step back. Memories of kickboxing classes, somewhere in her youth, escape through the fingers of memories in the back of her head. More boxing posture than anything, she lifts her arms to chin level. Fingers tear into the stuffie like it’s a lifeline, like it’s protection. And for now, it is. 

Not giving him the chance to answer, his mouth hangs open in muted response, “This is my apartment—you can either leave or I’ll–I’ll forcibly remove you.” It would take a 911 call—it would mean grabbing her phone from the nightstand, punching the emergency button, and staying away from him during response time. All unlikely, given proximity. The size of the apartment. How he blocks the only damn exit with his huge-ass frame. 

Jaw snapping closed, a thick brow pops up. He chuckles. He think this is funny, “Whoa, take it easy, bub—” 

“—shut up! Stop talking!” Pointing a strong finger at him, she shuffles back on light feet. Bobbing as best she can, trying to appear light. Prepared. But everything in every manual in the world wouldn’t have prepared her for home invasion—all those home defense classes. The hours shooting clays and targets with her father. Worthless. 

I am so going to die. 

Another step into her sanctuary, holy of holies. “Quit moving, damnit!” 

The stranger stops mid-stride, brows arched in surprise at her tone of voice. Squinched nose, and tightly shut eyes add to what must be a comical look on her face. Coupled with crimson cheeks and the shake setting into her hands, she surely looks—well. A sight, if little else.

Realizing nothing short of an eternity has lapsed in the cool peace and blissfully ignorant darkness of closed eyes, hers pop open. She watches has near-pawlike hands, mapped with raised veins and pronounced callous, drop to his sides for all of a minute. Her heart cuts against her ribs like an ax laid to roots, willing to break something loose—he chuckles. Laughs. Some faraway light catches the darkness of his eyes, brightens his face in a way that only ever seemed so Hollywood, but is now real. 

And he laughs with his entire body for all of a few seconds, wrinkles at either side of his eyes deepening into canyons that seem to fill with his amusement, at her expense.Mind short circuiting, her toes curl into the carpet, calluses on her heels catching frayed fibers as she does her best, again, to stay light on her feet. Nothing about her is light, certainly, and she attempts to calculate distance, how many seconds it would take her launch her body forward, toward the door. Past him, into the corridor, out the front door.

 HIs hand extends, palm up. Waving her forward, as if she were some thing to beckon—

—until her stuffie chucks directly at his face, a blur of hot-pink fur and fluff. 

The moment she arched her arm and sent Mr. Hearts on his first-ever attempt of flight, her feet springboard off the carpet, launching her forward at a speed she never thought possible. Adrenaline jumpstarts every one of her cells, lacing through her veins like rocket fuel—and the world spins by in a blur of color, her chest racked with pain as her heart racehorses behind bones that are no less than temperatures akin to magma. 

Tunnel vision blocks out the world, save the nearly sparkling promise of the room’s exit. Tears bubble up on her lash line, hot and intruders on any clarity of brainspace she’s trying to will forward. Hot, breathy fear closes her throat, nothing but blood rivers through her ears—nothing except the ache of her throbbing heart, the painful push and pull of her lungs expanding and retracting. 

They say hearing is the last thing to go when your soul begins to fade into death, but it’s a lie—she can’t hear a damn thing. And she’s more than alive.

Missing completely the soft snikt!, the what-would-usually-be unmissable split of skin, there’s a muffled tearing of fabric as once beloved Mr. Hearts suddenly becomes two halves of himself. Puffy stuffing explodes into the air, faintly she can feel her beloved stuffed animal hit the floor mutedly. In some back door of her brain she knows what’s happened, but survival carries her feet—pumps her arms. Zeroes her gaze on the door, blocks out anything other than the gut instinct to run, run, run hard. 

Finger reach to grab the doorway, hurl herself around the corner—but it’s too late. Electric movement snaps through the air, a microsecond passes before a thick, heavy arm catches her around her waist. Hauls her backward, sucks her from the door like something from  Star Wars, the world spinning by in a Picasso of color and tears as she’s manhandled, forced back. Kicking her feet into the air, she wills him to break, throwing her body mass back, against him. Arches her back. Wrangles and claws at the hair on his arm, the muscle that is taught against her rebellion.  

Throat splitting with a shriek, she’s silenced when his enormous palm claps hard over her mouth. It feels like centuries have passed, but in reality, it’s been seconds. Breaths and heartbeats. Tears trailblaze hot down her face, her throat all but reverberating with sobs. Body heat wraps around her, butter down her spine as the arm around her middle pulls her tighter. Closer. Keep your enemies close—

And he’s tall, legs anchored behind her. Like a brick house. Snot begins to empty her sinuses in a slick, sticky mess. Her mouth attempts to open behind the palm of his hand,all saliva and spit. Doesn’t seem to do much. Digging her heels into the floor, her foot skims the floor. Looks for one of his. Finding it, she slams her heel against would-be soft bones, and he hisses. Grunts like an animal.

“Knock it off,” his baritone rumbles, a dangerous growl over her ear, “not here to hurt you, darlin’.” A lie. She doesn’t believe him, digs her heels farther into the soft flesh of his feet. Buries her nails into his muscle, the soft flesh of that tender spot under the wrist. Veins, lots of blood there. 

Something obscene slips past his lips. Fighting back more stinging tears, his fingers curl around her wrist bruisingly, and with herculean strength, he whips her about-face, suddenly chest-to-chest with her as his fingers fist in her hair. Pulls sharply, “fuckin’ hell—calm the fuck down,” his fingers fall from her hair, instead grab her chin with an almost bruising grip, “stop bawlin’, for Christssake,” 

Her nails milk as they dig into his wrist, deep red lines canyon the hand holding her face with a patience lost to most members of his sex. Hard, dark eyes hold hers with a fierceness that numbs her intestinal tract. For a moment, an arctic swirl is born and dies in his gaze, resurrected instead a hint of grief and—empathy, maybe. A lostness she can’t describe. Confusion punches lines between his knitted brows, etching deep into ruddy, masculine features a kind of unwordly handsome, had he not been sent to kill her. 

Oh God, please—Shaking, her eyes pinch closed again, unwilling to let him see any more of her soul. More snot and tears, saliva pearls between the seam of her lips as she tries, and fails, not to blubber. Knees buckle. Hangs there, full weight of her body supported on her chin between his fingers, jaw suddenly alive with inferno pain. It lasts seconds before he lets her go, and she sinks to the floor, slackdoll and sobbing. Staring across the floor, her cheek burns against the harsh fibers of the floor. 

Her belt. Abandoned, on the floor last night after a work dinner. It’s the only thing, and her brain conjures images of just exactly how she’d use it, suddenly Jackie Chan or GI Jane or some shit she’s seen a thousand times on film, has never executed. Hiccuping in short breaths between sniffles and sobs, tears leak into the carpet off her cheek. Her heart pumps blood that may as well pool into her chest, leak between the cracks in her confidence. 

Stepping back, he looks at her. A cocktail of surprise and irritated, he sinks to a crouch. Shakes off red marks that still linger on his arm, wipe her snot and saliva on his-–are those yellow?-–pants. No time to notice, to care—her nails catch against the fibers of the carpet. Begin to push her bodyweight up, on an elbow. 

Unburdening a sigh, his hand scrubs his face as hers darts across floorspace. Snatching the belt with a speed she’s never fostered, he doesn’t even have time to put two and two together before the leather snaps like a whip, thick silvers from a rodeo buckle landing fully on the bone of his jaw. Cuts a deep line that flashes scarlet, rips open flesh like a fillet knife. 

“Fuck!” it’s harsh, bestial.

Reeling back, she finds time to scramble to her feet like a clumsy foal, looping the belt around her fist once as he pops tall. Backpedaling away from arm’s length, she pistons towards the door, on fire and pumping adrenaline like a sieve. 

And she flies. Out of the bedroom. Down the corridor. Somehow she manages to find her keys on the kitchen table as his heavy, earthshaking feet pump down the hall. Fumbles over her own feet at the front door, slams into it hard, bounces off. Fingers suddenly unable to communicate coherently with her brain, the chain lock on her apartment door is all but burning as she tries, and fails, to work it just so. 

“Come on, come on! Work, you piece of shit—” she’s never sworn more in her life than she has now, and it’s sour, like bile splashing up on her back teeth. But it rips from her throat all the same, bitter and hot, as she mutters fuck, fuck, fuck me! under short, airy breaths that do nothing to put oxygen back into her body. May as well be a drowning soul, the way she sucks in air. Gasps for breath. Drowning or an emphysemic. 

Ignoring the hard breathing behind her is impossible. Whirling around on the ball of her foot, he’s close enough to lock her against the door. Her head falls back hard enough to knock against the door, rattle her teeth. And as her vision begins to settle from the bouncing in her cranium, she sees the three blades bury to the knuckle—the knuckle?—in her heavy, pristine oak front door. Rattles the wall, splits the sheetrock. 

Pupils blown wide, she can feel all the blood leave her body. Terror locks her spine between slavering, hungry teeth. Gaze welded to the blood pearling from fresh wounds between white knuckles, the hinge of her jaw fails. Her mouth opens mutedly, enough for him to count her teeth if he so desired. 

And maybe he does. “Goin’ somewhere, honey,” it isn’t a question. That grin is animalistic. “Stay awhile, huh?” 

He closes in. Her head snaps forward to find him. Nose to nose, he sneers at her, and her eyes think to move to the fillet of open flesh her attack has left on his jawline—or, had. No evidence of even so much as a mark on the sharp line of his jaw, just dark facial hair and sweat that’s bubbling up on his skin, angry red that fans up his neck. Swearing to God she can see the vein in his temple throb with blood, her grip on the leather belt tightens before reality sets in. 

Ohmygod, ”You’re—” her stomach resurrects up her throat. ”—Jesus,” and it isn’t so much a curse as it is a prayer, a hope. A lifeline—grasping at straws, praying something sticks.

Reality begins to fall away, through boneless fingers. Feeling the belt slip from her control, her throat suddenly constricts to the point of oxygen deprivation. Gaping like a fish, her tongue swells to a thick cotton she can no longer feel. 

Numb—everything buzzes with that painful, white-noise needling. 

And she does the only thing her body can manage. Shoves past him just enough to upset a chair—

—-and throws up. 

still working on my taglist but: @thevoicefromanotherworld @sidkneeeee @misscrissfemmefatale @eternallyfrustratedwriter and those who showed interest: @ayamenimthiriel @pandapetals @theoreticalfreak @definitely-not-chill @ghostytoasty17 @werewolfpilar

[impactrueno]

beetlejuice stuff has been feeling a bit ironic for me the more time passes. i've been feeling like a ghost stuck in time and confined to this apartment for over a decade now. how i got to this point is kind of a long story, but i barely feel like a person because i stopped living my life at a certain point. so many years, wasted, unlived, because i was stuck here unable to move on from what broke my spirit

i can't get too much into this without it getting humiliating so that's all i can say but yeah

i guess i kind of am a ghost lol

[rustys-lodge]

Requested by @yourlocalratwriter : Could you please make a Hannibal x daughter reader(platonic) where his daughter has severe anger issues. Maybe like their having a outburst and yelling at him and doesn’t actually mean it? But they got Frustrated so they started yelling?

Warnings : anger issues, yelling by both parties.

A/n : ssso so sorry to answer this late, i finally have the courage to write again and i didnt wanna steal the plot or anythiing but at the same time i wanted to finally write thiiis ❤️

------

Hannibal, has welcomed you into his home. He cooks for you, helps you with your studies and even with your relationships with society and life. He would also like to help you with your room, but that, being your cocoon, is a restricted place for the meticulous Hannibal Lecter. That, until today.

--

You drag your feet through the mansion, tossing your bag on the nearest sofa as you headed for your room.

It had been a long day. A reeeeally long day. And frustration was irritating every part of your brain. Every inch of your body. You were definitely ready to melt into your mattress and fall asleep.

Yanking your bedroom door open, the scent of chemicals and artificial roses slaps your nostrils as you discover an orderly room. Not your room.

Your eyebrows knit together as you scan every inch of the space.

Disgusting. Tidy. Unlivable.

No more piles of clothes. No more stacked up papers. No more of those littles things you placed exactly in the right spot, exactly where you needed them.

Hannibal.

You march out of your room, each step growing louder and louder, fueling your anger. Until you reach the study.

You place your hand on the door handle, a thought comes to your mind.

You are not to come in without knocking on the door, y/n.

But you think again…Fuck him ?

You push the handle down, simultaneously pushing the door forward. There he is.

Your heart skips a beat.

Hannibal almost jolts up. For a split second, he's surprised. But as soon as his eyes land on your face, his body relaxes. And his features go back to being illegible. He watches you, his head slightly tilting to the side, waiting for an answer to a question he didn't need to ask.

"My room." You say.

"Yes ?" The doctor responds in an even simplistic manner. And it shakes sometimes in you.

"I told you not to touch my room." You keep your words to a minimum. As you were far far from calm, anymore anger and words were going to start spurting out of your mouth.

You wanted to avoid that.

"I organized everything accordingly. I d-"

What ?

His voice dies down as rage boils through your body. He's always trying to control everything. He cooks, he tells you what to do. When to do it. He chooses your meals for you. Who you're allowed to go out with. When to come home. Wait-so he read stuff, in order to organize it ?

"You read my stuff ?"

"That's not what i meant i-"

"Why would you do that, Hannibal." Your voice pierces through your own ears. You feel hot and your stomach is knotted up.

"Y/n, calm down."

"DONT TELL ME TO CALM FUCKING DOWN." Your body jolts in response, reaching your end point. "You're always trying to control everything. You fucking control freak" You accusingly point your finger at him. And your father stares in response.

He bites his bottom lip as his eyes rove from your reddened face to your finger, and back to your face. And slowly, he sets his hand on top of your finger, lowering it down forcingly. But you pulled away.

"Don't fucking touch m-"

"That's it." The man snaps, gripping your arm and dragging you over to the sofa, where he pushes you down. His grip is firm, but gentle. And before you have the time to move, he kneels down in front of you. "Now you're going to breat-you're going to breathe and I won't let you go until you do so."

Yours eyes meet his and your heart instantly slows down...But the overwhelming pain in your stomach doesn't die down. It lingers...

"Breathe, darling." Your father nods encouragingly as he awaits for you to obey. But you breathe heavily. Your voice sounded so hoarse and rough. You hated it. You didn't mean the words that just came out of your mouth. You didn't mean them. You just-Not sure-It just felt-

"It's okay, sweetheart, i know."

You shake your head as he nods No...No- He doesn't get it-he doesn't know. No-Y-

"I know you didn't mean what you said...It's okay."

You sniffle, a lump growing in your throat. "I'm sorry." It comes in a whisper.

"It's alright..Just breathe."

-----

Good reading, i hope. ❤❤❤🌹🌹🌹

[deadbeat-motel]

ᗪᗰ!ᗩᑎGEᒪᗪᑌᔕT ᒪOᖇE ᗩᑎᗪ TᖇIᐯIᗩ

Deadbeat Motel's Angel Dust Lore under the cut. (If you squint hard enough, you can see Vaggie and Charlie's rough design too.)

ᒪOᖇE

Angel Dust was never the best mafia member of his own family. He was too weak-hearted to deal with the types of people who made their home within the seedy world of crime. He was no good with taking a man's life nor was he any good with commanding the goons their family had, so his father had kept him trafficking drugs to be somewhat useful for the family. Angel Dust was happy about that, It was far from being in danger, and if he was careful enough, he would be able to have drugs from the stash he's supposed to be giving out to their clients.

One night, however, while high on PCP, a drug deal he and his brother were on had gone bad because their client finally got wise to Angel's stealing. A gunfight broke out killing men on both sides of the deal. AngelDust, while high on drugs, had killed someone in the middle of it, and he was still reeling from the shock of it when his high came down. His brother punched him in the face causing a black eye and told him how incredibly fucked they are because of what he's done. It was revealed that this drug deal was a way for their group to make peace with one another and killing those goons in that room had doomed the family to a Turf War they were not that prepared for. Going to his father to attempt to apologize had only gotten him killed in his father's rage.

AngelDust wakes up to Hell with a body he was surprised to like (despite his family being homophobic and possibly also misogynistic and transphobic). He's surprised to know how common and easy to find drugs are in this new place he's in but quickly finds out he's broke and unable to find a job because of how unused to his own body he is. His first few weeks in hell have been rough until he realizes he can utilize how this body works to his advantage. Many men and women lined up to want a piece of him and they paid good money too. Plus if they ever tried to hurt him, well this body showed him it's more than capable of keeping him safe. He actually did enjoy sex work more than his work as a former mafia member.

Everything went to shit when Valentino found him, he thought he was just another client who frequented him often and paid big money. When presented with a contract to work with him, he accepted since it looked as if the only thing he was asking for was to be his employee. However, as soon as he signed, hidden words started to reveal themselves on the paper. It turned out, he wanted more than what he was letting on. Val was a new Overlord and he's been slowly gaining the reputation that he has today and unfortunately Angel Dust had been duped by this demon. he just hadn't shown him his true colors back then to lower his guard around him.

Angel Dust has tried to fight Val before but nothing good came out of it. He wouldn't be able to do much about him if the contract was still in effect. He even lost the mandibles on his mouth because he had bitten Valentino reflexively one time. For 2-3 decades (might be subjected to change) he's had to deal with Val's abuse of him All optimism has dried out, and he's been living and coping with despair.

Angel Dust learns of the Motel and checks in mainly to get away from Val (He constantly moves places and doesn't feel safe in his previous apartment as Val has found him once again). He doesn't take the entire point of the motel seriously because he'll be gone within a month or two. After all, that's how often Val found him and sure enough, he did find him. Val starts talking like he owns the place, starts threatening everyone, and even attempts to control Valerie and Charlie when they confront him about what he's doing to Angel Dust. They of course are unaffected because of their angelic natures and Valerie absolutely thrashed the unliving shit out of Val. But before she can kill him, Val brings up the fact that if she kills him he will kill Angel Dust, taking him and the other hundred souls he has under his contract. With Angel Dust's and the other hundreds of souls' lives on the line, they had to concede and let him live, but not without warning him that if Angel Dust dies because of him, both women are going to make sure he begs for a second death.. This of course is not a big change for Angel Dust, but he's glad he can keep crashing at this motel knowing that Val won't dare come into this place if he wanted all his limbs attached to his body.

Angel Dust has become a permanent resident of the motel.

TᖇIᐯIᗩ:

Angel Dust frequented more LGBT-friendly speakeasies before he died (considering OG Angel Dust's family was homophobic iirc) and while he didn't participate in "pansy shows". He did want to join them.

Angel dust can produce webbing and uses it to slow down his pursuers. They've got a really strong grip on anything that touches it.

As a last resort, Angel Dust uses his webbing whips. They're non-lethal (At least I think so) since he mainly uses its sticky factor. They're good at disarming enemies who have guns from far away, especially since Angel Dust is creative with his uses of it.

Angel Dust used to have sharp teeth but had them forcibly flattened because Val was tired of the fact he's been nicked by those teeth of his multiple times.

The motel is actually the first place in a while he's stayed in for a year. Angel Dust has been able to make his room more comfortable for him and has his own stash of knick-knacks on display.

He is never seen front-facing. The view in front of Angel's face is treated like Phineas' front-facing view. Never allowed to be seen other than in smear frames.

A running joke for me is how everyone has no idea how a Spider's anatomy even works (I don't either).

Yeah, he'd still be shipped with Husk but I'm not having Husk call him a loser because my blood would boil, plus I'm changing their dynamic but I'll get into that when Husk is finished.

A big plot point for Angel Dust would be that he gets to kill Val with the aid of Valerie/Husk or the both of them and that while he'll be free of his abuser, it has screwed over his ticket out of hell in the eyes of heaven. However, it was able to spark a debate within Heaven's court... should the rules be so strict that they would punish a victim that finally fought back against his own abuser? (It's not that deep but it's a start at least rather than "You don't know what gets people into heaven?")

Currently unsure as to how Cherri Bomb would fit into his story but I might be able to figure it out later when I get to her redesign

I think that's all for now? This may be subjected to change at some point in time, but ask me anything about this version of AngelDust

[blackwomanwriter]

"Mine"

Read: Part I, Part II

It's been a minute, but I finally wrote something. And of course, I had to go back to this series because there is something about Thomas Shelby. Anyways, I hope you enjoy, and let me know your favorite part. Happy Reading!

He entered quietly like he was on a mission. Although this one was unlike the ones he had performed during the war and after. No, this mission was different. Very different. Yet, Tommy performed it with the same intensity.

Eyes narrowed on the quiet interior, clocking each entry point and exit way, like a soldier, he assessed his environment. He hadn’t been in a house this small since his childhood. Even back then, the space had felt cluttered and cramped. Too noisy to think. Too busy to breathe. The stench of his father’s hangover in the air before it disappeared altogether.

He remembered talking Arthur out of trying to find their father. A man unworthy of carrying - no, sharing his surname. Tommy tensed his jaw, moving past the memory. Instead, he raised a brow at how devastatingly clean the entire place felt. Physically tidy, but clean in a way that made the house feel empty. Unlived. Unloved. Cold. The opposite of everything he thought of her. She was warm. Tender. Inviting.

Moving to the narrow staircase, he could hear the water running. The pipes pushing the water through the house. She was here. She was alive. She was avoiding him - again.

He hiked up the stairs, stepping one foot in front of the other. Like a soldier, he kept moving. He carried on with the task before him. His mind focused on the mission.

Opening the door quietly, Tommy leaned on the door frame - taking in the sight before him. Curved hips that were fuller since he had last seen her. A waist that tempted him to wrap his arms around her. It was now that he reached in his pocket for a cigarette.

“Jesus, Tommy,” she shrieked. The click of his lighter giving him away.

She rested a hand on her heart, shuddering as she closed her eyes.

Unbothered, he traced the stick along his bottom lip before lighting it.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” She pinched the bridge of her nose, as her breath steadied.

“You haven’t been taking my calls,” he stated. Gaze unchanged. Smoke filling the air.

“I’m in mourning,” she enunciated, grabbing a towel to cover herself. She didn’t bother hiding her frustrations as she shoved past him. She was angry. He liked her angry.

At first, when she didn’t answer his call, he had briefly worried that she was sad. Tearful over the sudden death of her husband, who the police found floating in the river after a night of drinking. His death ruled accidental according to the official report. A drunken man’s blunder. An unsurprising end of life. An expected death for a man who drank as much as her late husband did.

An easy lie to believe, but she knew the truth. The greatest mistake the dead man had made was marrying Thomas Shelby’s favorite whore. It was her mistake more than his. She knew what she was doing when she said yes. The risks she was taking by marrying while Tommy was off in America. Her moment of rebellion had cost a life.

Although, they had gotten past the letter. She hadn’t returned to him. She wanted to keep her promise. To stay married. To honor what was left of her vows. She wouldn’t work for him. She wouldn’t see him. The temptation of losing herself in him made her stay away. She had already ruined the sanctity of her marriage by sleeping with him in his office. She didn’t want to continue making a mockery of the words she vowed before God and man.

She was suddenly religious, which amused Tommy. He thought it was a game, but she clung on to every word spoken by the priest. At the funeral, she remembered his words at the wedding. How he had pressed upon her the importance of repentance. Before Thomas Shelby, she had been a good girl. Never told a lie. Prayed before bed. Devout daughter. Devoted sister. An upstanding and honorable member of her community. He had changed her. Corrupted her. Loved her. Destroyed her.

“It’s been weeks,” Tommy stated coolly.

She ignored him. Her hands focused on the cream she was applying to her skin. Smooth skin. Soft skin. Skin his lips remembered. The taste imprinted on his tongue. Tommy exhaled.

His patience was wearing thin. He loved her. She loved him. He figured out how to help her keep her promise and allow him to keep his. Her husband was dead, and she was free.

“I see you’re eating again,” he quipped, trying to stir a reaction out of her. She didn’t disappoint. He ducked as the bottle of cream nearly struck his head.

“I went from being a whore to being a widow.”

“Sounds like the beginning of a book.” Tommy shrugged then ducked again. This time, she threw a shoe.

“At least I can bargain my way into heaven as a whore,” she resolved, refusing to meet his eyes.

“Is that what your priest tells you?” He brought the cigarette back to his lips for another drag.

He knew. Of course, he knew. She wondered if he was having her followed again. How else would he know about her visits to the church. Her talks with the priest.

“My greatest sin is you,” she finished her thought.

Her words were meant to be cutting, but Tommy remained unbothered. His eyes stoic, jaw set as if he was watching a horse race. He brought his cigarette to his lip, letting it dangle as he neared her. 

She stood up, ready to shove past him again, but he grabbed her forearm. Her eyes flared up at him as she tried to loosen his grip, but he remained firm.

“You want to talk about sins, ey?” He whispered against her ear. “You married a man who picked a pint over his life. A man who stowed you away in a house he couldn’t bear to live in himself, while he stayed three doors down with his brother’s wife.”

She frowned, hearing him confirm a suspicion she wouldn’t allow herself to believe. When he stopped coming home, she told herself that he was drunk at a pub or sleeping his hangover off at his mother’s house.

“A man who lost his wages betting on fights.”

So that’s where all their money had gone, she thought. Her face didn’t flinch as Tommy confirmed another truth. Her late husband was just another man who had let her down. All the words she threw at Tommy about him being a good man were lies. He was just better at hiding his wrongs.

Tommy softened his grip on her hand, as he relayed the sin that he couldn’t forgive. The sin that forced him to intervene without thinking of the consequences. “A man who was willing to sell his wife to settle his debts.”

Her eyes widened then glazed over. The shred of innocence he once found in those warm brown irises was quickly disappearing. He cursed at himself for the letter, but it wasn’t just the letter. It was the months he left her wondering if he could ever love again. It was the voice that told him to push her away. She married the man because of him.

Tommy released her hand. There was a part of him that wished he hadn’t been so honest. Her hardened eyes told him just as much. The look on her face was one he had seen before in the women who dared to love him. When his darkness eventually shadowed their light. When his world swallowed them whole.

She reached for the cigarette hanging from his mouth. Taking a long drag, she exhaled. The smoke covering Tommy’s face.

“My sin was marrying the wrong man,” she concluded.

His thumb brushed her skin, remembering when her lips pressed against his in hunger. His lip bleeding as their need took precedence. Her lip bruised from his appetite. Even when he had her, he needed more. Tracing her lip, he gently placed the cigarette between his fingers then lifted it to his mouth. The first puff was for the memory. The second was for his patience.

“No, my god doesn’t care about sins.”

“I didn’t think you believed in,” sighing, she looked up, “anything.”

Tommy closed his eyes. His patience wearing on him again. “You’re moving out of this house. You’re coming back to work, and you’re going to answer when I call.”

“Of course, Mr. Shelby,” she answered.

His jaw ticked at the use of his surname. The smoke from his cigarette creating a haze over his eyes. “Don’t start.”

“Tell me what your god thinks about whores.”

“Everyone’s a whore,” he muttered, as he moved toward the door, already thinking of his next order of business. The kiss would have to wait.

“Is that what your wife thinks?”

Tommy stopped walking. Leaning his hand on the door frame, he closed his eyes. His nose flared. His annoyance growing with her disobedience. He seemed to attract women who were determined to do the opposite of what he asked.

“She confronted me. Told me to stay away,” she admitted, and in that second, he realized why she ignored him. She was no longer his secret. He made his affection too obvious.

“I’ll take care of it,” he firmly stated, leaving no room for further questions. Yet, she continued.

“Does she follow any of the other girls or is it just me?” She asked.

He wasn’t ready to admit that there weren’t any other girls. That there hadn’t been other girls for a while. From the moment he declared his love, Tommy had made himself hers - only hers.

“You love me, but there are others,” she whispered. “I love you, but all I do is think of them. To be with you, I have to worry about them. I have to wait to be yours.”

“Is that what you’re doing then - waiting?” He asked, closing the distance between them.

Her hand dropped to her middle and Tommy’s eyes followed. He stared, then frowned before bringing his gaze back to her. “How far along?”

Her eyes softened. The grief coloring every muscle in her face. Tommy closed his eyes. She was in mourning. He understood her words clearly now. It was moments like this that made him miss Polly. She would have known.

Tommy muttered something in his Romanian tongue as he sat on the bed. He stamped his cigarette out in silent rage. There was never an end. Death seemed to find him at every turn. It hunted him. Craved him.

His hands went to her robe. Slowly, he pulled the fabric, revealing her body. A body that had prepared itself to carry his child. A body that had nourished him back to life. His fingers moved to her belly, tracing the skin there. The soft, smooth skin.

He looked up at her and saw the tears she wouldn’t shed. How long had she held them in, unable to weep. Unable to speak. Unable to fully mourn. Wrapping his arms around her middle, he pulled her in and kissed the place his hands had touched. He tried to do what she had done for him; he tried to make it okay for her to feel.

“I’m fine, Tommy. It’s better this way,” she said, her voice cold and void of any emotion.

“When?” He whispered, knowing it was his, and yet wondering how he’d missed so much in so little time.

“It doesn’t matter,” she stiffened. “It’s gone now, and I need to move on.”

She gave him a second to make peace with the reality she had lived with for weeks. Then, she moved from his touch, closing her robe as she distanced herself. Loving him was painful enough without the added grief of their lost child.

“You shouldn’t have come,” she folded her arms, avoiding his gaze.

Tommy raised a brow, staring at her before glancing around the room. It was as cold as the rest of the house - bare of any details or remnants of her. Standing up, Tommy found a new mission. He moved past her in search of anything that made the four walls more of a home.

His hands traced the metal bed frame. His fingers trailing the linen and cloth. He opened windows and tapped on wooden walls. He inspected the little furniture in the room, unsatisfied with the results.

“Tommy,” she started to say as he pushed open a wardrobe, finding it empty.

She was leaving. She planned to leave London. She planned to leave him. The thought stung in Tommy’s mind as he opened drawer after empty drawer. His anger taking center stage.

“Tommy,” her voice raised with concern.

He shoved the empty wardrobe back, watching as it crashed against the wall.

“Stop,” she yelled, as he shoved the wardrobe again and again. His grief coloring his anger. His anger coloring his grief. Her heart jumped as the wooden drawers finally cracked under the pressure. The splitting wood overshadowing her screams as the wardrobe completely fell apart.

“Tommy,” she cried, rushing to stop him from breaking the wood further. “Stop.”

“Please,” she whispered. Her plea full of a love she couldn’t deny him.

He exhaled. The sound of his heightened breath taking all the space in the room. His anger taking all the air. Tommy closed his eyes. The familiar whispers creeping in his head, telling him to put out the fire. To walk over to the other side. To let go of this life. To finally rest.

She swallowed, unsure of what to tell him, and yet, she persisted. “My sister found work outside of London. She thought it’d be good for me…”

Tommy shook his head, looking up at the ceiling.

“I wanted to tell you,” she stopped, lowering her head. There was nothing to say.

He scoffed. “Tell me.”

It felt like deja vu to hear him utter those words to her again. To hear the same command. The same request he’d asked from her when she told him about the wedding. Yet, this time, there was nothing left to say.

She stared at the back of his head. Her fingers yearning to brush his hair or wrap themselves around him. Her lips longing to kiss the nape of his neck.

Closing her eyes, she confessed. “There’s no life for me here.”

“You’re not leaving.” He pushed back, ignoring her words. “You’re mine.”

“When?” She sighed. “When am I yours, Tommy?”

He lifted his head, staring at the wall. His mind moving a mile a minute. She couldn’t leave him. His heart wouldn’t allow it. His body would protest. His hunger was contained to her. His thoughts all went back to her. How many minutes until he can think of her? How many meetings until he can dream of her? He suffered without her to be with her. Every hour he was away was an hour he promised to give to her.

He was a selfish man, who wanted what he wanted. A man who endured wars and monsters disguised as men. A cursed man. A broken man. A suffering man. A man who didn’t deserve her, and yet, he wanted her. He needed her. She was the cigarette on his lips. The pain tablets in his pocket. The shirt on his back. The razor blade on his cap. She couldn’t leave him.

“When your wife is gone? When you’re fucking other women?” Her voice continued in the background, but Tommy was half-listening. “When you’re bored? When the nightmares come? When the work is done? When am I yours?” She asked again, although there was no anger in her question.

“When you married him, you were mine. Every time you put on his fucking ring; you were mine.” His brows furrowed as he reached into his side pocket for a cigarette. “When you moved into this house, you were mine. When you had my fucking child inside of you, you were mine.” Tommy sniffed, turning to face her. “From the moment you entered my office, you belonged to me.”

She stiffened, as she traced her empty ring finger. His crassness didn’t bother her as much as his refusal to listen. He disregarded her words, only focusing on what he wanted. It was why she didn’t want to tell him about the baby. He would have stuck her in a big house that he would never visit. Given her everything except the thing she wanted, which was him. But now that nightmare wasn’t even a reality because she’d lost their child. She'd lost a piece of him.

“Is that all it takes…” she started to argue, but words were pointless. Their arguments were pointless. They had a love that was cursed from inception.

In this life, he was promised to another. In the next, he would be reunited with another. In life and death, she had no place in Thomas Shelby’s life. Her love for him didn’t save their unborn child. It reminded her that their love had no place to grow. It was wilted, and no amount of money or prayer could save them.

“You’re not leaving,” Tommy declared, cornering her until she had no choice but to look up at him.  Her brown eyes sinking into him, full of a love he didn’t deserve.

“You made me a promise,” he whispered. His jaw tensing as he remembered that night in his office when he had made himself hers. When he had promised to live. To stop craving death. The gods had given him a second chance with her.

“Tommy,” she protested, but he continued.

“You gave me your word.” His lips brushed hers and her body shuddered. “You made promises to me. Promises I intend to collect.”

His hand slipped down to her robe, loosening the ties. His fingers marking a trail from her chest to her neck to her lips. “Promises you agreed to keep.”

She folded under his touch. Her head falling on his chest as she exhaled. Quick, short breaths that made Tommy pull her in closer.

“And what of your promises?” She grabbed his fingers before they could slip between her thighs.

“Hmmm,” he hummed, trying not to smirk. “Remind me again.”

Shaking her head, she moved from his hands. Her heart ached, but it would always ache whether she was with him or not. He was not wrong. It belonged to him. From the moment she entered his office, her heart had become his. Knowing he was promised to another, it still beat for him. It yearned for him. It acted without consequence.

Thou shall not commit adultery. A vow she’d broken within a month of knowing Thomas Shelby. But her heart didn’t care. It didn’t care about the commandments she broke. Her sins were plenty but her heart was full. Full of love for a man who couldn’t confess his love until she married another.

Turning away from him, she closed her robe. Her hand wanted to follow the trail he etched on her skin, but she didn’t. She could hear him lighting a cigarette. His eyes on her. His eyes undressing her. His eyes claiming her as his.

She wanted to run, but her heart wouldn’t let her. Instead, she willed herself to face him. Smoke in the air. His scent in every crevice of the cramped room. She inhaled and tried to tell him again. Her thoughts were on her lips, and yet, nothing.

Offering her his cigarette, Tommy stepped towards her. “Leaving London won’t cure you of me.”

She reached for the smoke. Grateful for the distraction. For the heat. For the vapors. For the way her lungs would expand and contract. For the cigarette they shared between them. His lips on her lips. Her lips on his.

“That priest of yours won’t help you either,” he added.

“What is the cure then?”

Tommy leaned into her. His hands on her waist, slowly moving her robe up past her knees then her thighs. “First, you have to stop running.”

“Running?” She asked, confused by his accusation.

“The wedding. The job. This house.” He counted. “And now these plans of leaving London.” His hands pushed the fabric of her robe from her skin, leaving her naked before him. “You mustn’t run.”

“And what if I do?” She questioned, not allowing her nudity to dissuade her.

Tommy brushed her cheek before taking the cigarette from her lips. “I’ll find you. Remind you of where you belong.”

“And where is it that I belong?” She asked. Her eyes gentle and pleading. 

He brought her hand to his chest, placing it where his heart lay. “Here. Right here.”

She swallowed her nerves, terrified of letting her heart speak. “Second?” She went back to his list.

“Second.” He took a drag, exhaling the smoke before he continued, “You must know, I get scared,” he admitted, and she finally understood why he’d written her that letter. Thomas Shelby was scared of loving her. The first woman he loved died in his arms because of a bullet meant for him. Love was something to fear, and he was terrified.

“Now, it’s unpleasant and it’s unkind. But when I am…”

“I’ll remind you,” she finished, “of where you belong.”

Tommy cupped her face, placing a kiss on her head. “Good.”

She closed her eyes. Her heart too fragile for Thomas Shelby’s confession. He hadn’t proposed, yet they were already exchanging vows.

“Last.” He leaned his head on hers. “And the most important.”

“Yes,” she breathlessly whispered.

Tommy’s finger traced her bottom lip before he kissed her. His lips hungry to taste her. Selfish in his desire - his consumption of her. He groaned when he felt her kiss him back. Her own need just as desperate as his. She moaned when their lips parted, disappointed by her body’s need for air.

“I promise to have you pregnant by spring.”

Her eyes lit up as she laughed for the first time in months. She chuckled, not taking him seriously. “Tommy.”

“A boy,” he declared, wrapping his arms around her middle. “He’ll have your eyes and my charm.”

She giggled, playfully hitting his chest as he picked her up and placed her on the bed. Her smile widening as she gazed at him. She was returning to herself - returning to him. Weeks of grief slowly thawing from her heart.

Tommy stamped out his cigarette before joining her with a kiss. His body on top of hers. His hands on either side of her head. His mind fixated on the softness of her skin.

“I’ll be back at work in the morning,” she whispered in between kisses.

“You won’t be working anymore.”

She pulled away from his kiss, frowning at him. “What are you on about, Tommy?”

He sighed, already knowing he was about to start another fight. “I won’t have you working with a child of mine inside of you.”

“What?”

“You’ll be carrying my son,” Tommy repeated.

Closing her eyes, she realized he was serious. Of course, he was serious. She wondered how long he’d been planning to get her pregnant again.

“I don’t deserve you,” Tommy kissed her lips. “But, I promised to give you a life worthy of everything you are.” He reminded her. “I promised to let you in my head. I promised to do more than just wait to die. I promised to live.”

She wanted to be angry with him, but he remembered. Every word. Every promise. Everything they had discussed in his office.

“I promised to keep you safe.”

“To make us safe,” she corrected.

He kissed her again. “There are no other girls,” Tommy confessed, reminding her of his other promise. Tommy Shelby was hers.

Grabbing his collar, she pulled him into a long kiss. “No more running,” she vowed.

Tommy smiled. “No more.” He pressed his lips on hers before adding, “You’re mine.”

This time, she didn’t argue, simply letting him kiss her. “Now, where were we, Mrs. Shelby?” He asked, slipping his fingers between her thighs.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

This was a long one. If you made it to the end, thank you for reading! Let me know your favorite part.

[sporeblossom]

logging back onto this website to say that while i dont think (???) it was intentionally done, the scene before their "last day" where frank is working on a portrait of bill, reminded me of keith haring's "unfinished painting"

comparison here before i explain:

keith haring's painting was purposely made to look incomplete. haring was diagnosed with HIV in late 1988, and died in early 1990, at the age of 31. the painting is a self portrait, hitting us with the gut-punch reality of how the aids-epidemic robbed haring of the right to finish his own story. the overwhelming amount of empty space is a glaring reminder that haring didn't just have a short life, he had an incomplete one. the piece points to all that empty space and says: this should have been filled out. this should all have been my art, my story, and my space. by claiming this empty space, haring claimed the empty space of his unlived life, that was taken from him and so many other people, by a negligent and homophobic society that refused to care about the pandemic ravaging an entire community worldwide.

now back to my original point: like i said, im really not sure if this was intentionally done by the show. but when i was watching this episode and i saw this scene, i immediately thought of this painting. the blue color of the eye trailing off onto the blank part of the canvas is, at least to me, a strong visual parallel.

and i feel like this visual parallel highlights some very important thematic parallels as well, which deserve to be talked about. in the show, the outbreak starts in 2003 which means that bill and frank have both lived through the aids-epidemic. they have seen people like them die. they have experienced the hatred and isolation that came with it. you could speculate and read into things ad nauseaum, but i thinks it's safe to say that in this place and time, this also plays into how careful and hesitant they are, when they first start to show intimacy with each other. in their world, they didn't even get to experience the legalization of gay marriage.

seeing as this show takes place during another, fictional, pandemic, airing at a time where the real world has just faced another actual pandemic, it is impossible to ignore this aspect of their story.

these two characters however, are not destroyed by the outbreak in the show. they find each other, they experience freedom, love, and a full life together. their life is not cut short.

in an absurd twist of fate, when the rest of the world is finally forced to experience what it's like to be abandoned by your government during a devastating epidemic, this is when these two people find happiness. they get to go running, and have fights, and grow strawberries, and have friends over for dinner.

and after spending nearly twenty years together, frank spends his last time working not on a self portrait, but on a portrait of bill, the love of his life. this is the sort of thing that rightfully should have filled the empty space of haring's work. finding love(s) spending your time together, that is a life lived.

and yet frank's painting is unfinished, because of course we are never truly done living. we are never truly done loving. but he got so much more time, so much more story, than the people we lost to the aids epidemic, which the trailing off blue paint reminds us of.

at the same time their house is absolute filled with all the paintings that frank did finish, showing us all the good days he got with bill. and in a way, i feel like that is the show being very aware of what it is: a complete, beautiful story about two men loving each other, in a world that sorely lacks these stories. a world where we had so many unfinished, incomplete lives, that we lack an entire generation of older gay men.

and even though i was completely reduced to tears by the end of this episode, the ending still filled me with some sort of mournful joy. because yes, even though it was incredibly sad to see their last day, these two men got to fill so much of their empty space. they got to experience love, and they got to live their life. like bill says: "im old. im satisfied. and you were purpose."

so many people didn't get that. keith haring didn't get that. a whole generation of queer people didn't get that. that makes this episode so much more moving for me, because it is not just an incredibly beautiful love story, but it is an incredibly beautiful love story that the world should rightfully have seen millions more of. but all those lives were incomplete.

so with the undeniable, but unspoken, presence of the aids epidemic in the narrative of these characters, this visual reference to keith haring and aids, purposeful or not, is incredibly meaningful.

[wolfsong-the-bloody-beast]

There is a cure for vampirism!

I haven't finished playing Baldur's Gate 3 yet, so I don't know how Larian handles Astarion. I'm currently somewhere in the middle of Act 3, I've done his personal quest, so I'm getting there. However, there's something I've been thinking about since the start of the game, the moment I learned that Astarion is a vampire spawn. There is a cure!

Warning: Major spoilers for Baldur's Gate 2!

I'm surprised I haven't seen anyone talk about this yet. Maybe I've just missed it. I have to put it out there because it's gnawing at me. There is a solution!

There are a lot of variables to the story of Gorion's Ward (GW), so I'm not going to speak for everyone, but at some point in the story of Baldur's Gate 2, GW's love interest is kidnapped by a powerful vampire, Bodhi, and turned into a vampire spawn. However, GW and their friends defeat Bodhi and in her very lair find an ancient tome with information on how to restore a vampire spawn, bring them fully back to life.

Another great thing is that, at that point, you may have Jaheira with you - I did - so she would know of the solution and could provide this information to Tav's party. Surely, a Harper would even keep a tome of such importance, or GW, raised in Candlekeep, would bring it to one of the greatest libraries there is, especially after it had saved their loved one's life. The tome would be invaluable to them.

What needs to be done should be simple enough: Take the heart of the master vampire who turned the victim and bring it to a temple of Amaunator (There's one in the Umar Hills, at the very least, even if it was falling apart a hundred years ago.) together with the spawn. GW's love interest had to be delivered dead because they were fully under control of their vampire master and I imagine also because of the game's limitations - the spawn just wouldn't follow even when charmed. But I see no reason it wouldn't work with a living spawn.

Pray.

???

Profit!

"In the arms of the Sun god were the infected placed, and the hearts of their dark masters were laid there with them. Blood did burn, and the dead returned, but not as undead or unliving, but alive and freed from taint."

GW's love interest was brought back to life perfectly fine. There was no catch. No side effects.

Now pardon me if I'm being redundant and Baldur's Gate 3 deals with it in some other way. I just had to put this out there, because it'd been driving me insane, having this in my head since starting the game. The whole damn time.

But anyway, here, for all your happy ever after headcanon needs, in case it is needed!

[arievanille]

𝐏ℒ𝐀𝐂𝐄𝒮 𝐓𝒪 𝒮ℋ𝐈𝐅𝒯 !!

#OO1. an apocalypse dr — but except it being zombies there’s an outbreak of vampires, or aliens, or venomous creatures, etc.

#OO2. stuck in space dr — where you’re in a space school [ dunno what it’s actually called ] and you get tested to go to space and it succeeds but you get stuck in space having to go on another planet.

#OO3. 2013/14/15 youtuber dr — being that quirky unboxing youtuber where you have fun and aesthetic vlogs, shortened shopping hauls, etc.

#OO4. poor to rich dr — hear me out, living in a small apartment then suddenly waking up rich?? i hope this sounds cool to someone else bc it sounds cool to me, idk why tho.

#OO5. boxer angst dr — you’re a boxer by force and you end up having to fight someone who’s better than you and they end up teaching you how to live your own life [ this sounds like a wattpad book ]

#OO6. living in an unlivable place dr — for instance living in a school or a car or in a camper van, etc your choice! doing this with your friends or wtv!

#OO7. get paid to eat around the world dr — self explanatory but imagine getting paid to explore and eat?? yeah. hoping you seeing my vision.

#OO8. living with humanized creatures, vampires, aliens, mermaids, etc but having to keep it a secret or you’re the humanized creature living with a human [ib by the show lighting point]

[shimisstuff]

Terrible sleep paralysis torment you for months. The problem does not seem to be psychological... what really happens at night? As much as you’re afraid to admit it, something seems to torture you... maybe rape you?

❗️I’m not trying in any way to romanticize what will happen in this shot! Everything you read will be quite dark and strong, so please, if you are sensitive to this, do not interact!

18+/ sleep paralysis/horror/gore/mahito rape you

Rape/Non-con ElementsRapeRape FantasyRough SexVaginal SexRough Oral SexPenis In Vagina SexVaginal FingeringFingerfuckingMahito is His Own Warning (Jujutsu Kaisen)Mahito Being an Asshole (Jujutsu Kaisen)Yandere Mahito (Jujutsu Kaisen)Creepy Mahito (Jujutsu Kaisen)Slutty Mahito (Jujutsu Kaisen)Top Mahito (Jujutsu Kaisen)Blood and GoreGoreMild GorePsychological HorrorBody Horror

Sorry for any errors, this fic is translated from italian!

SLEEP PARALYSIS

-Mahito x Reader-

«How long have sleep disorders been going on?».

«Months», your lips had rippled, «about six months», you had corrected yourself, while you made to wander your tired look on the furniture of your doctor’s office.

He called your name, taking you away from your thoughts.

«I read your medical records, you changed more than three psychoanalysts before you got to me. I wonder, are you sure that it is only this?».

Your eyes had met his. Two heavy shiners made you look like a rag, and the young man in front of you, no matter how professional he tried to be, couldn’t help feeling sorry for you.

What I’m trying to tell you is that even sleeping pills don’t work, and you know that? I tried everything, natural remedies and not-», you were angry, you hated, when they suggested that your problem was only in your head, because it wasn’t.

The more you convinced yourself, the more the doctors turned against you, and even this time it was no different.

«I mean the presence and the phantom sensations of pressure on the chest can be a symptom of post traumatic stress. It is easy for you to experience frequent sleep paralysis for this reason. Perhaps if we faced the problem psychologically it would be better. I think you understand, I can not continue to prescribe drugs, without knowing what could be the trigger».

You had sighed, swallowing. Yet another hole in the water.

Coming out of the clinic where you had gone in the morning, you had inhaled the air of Tokyo as if it were the best air in the world- it was absolutely not and your lungs filled with smog and tar.

You swallowed, your throat was dry, your eyes were burning, your head was beating.

All feelings you had begun to endure.

You were a young girl in your twenties, with a wonderful career ahead of you, a capable and brilliant woman, yet, life had decided to put you in front of all this.

As you walked through the crowded streets of Tokyo, the chaos of the metropolis seemed like a distant echo in your mind. The doctor mentioned the possible link between the trauma you suffered and your sleep problems, but it was difficult to accept that the solution could simply be psychological. You had sought comfort in sleeping pills and remedies of all kinds, but nothing seemed to relieve your tormented mind.

The memory of the incident kept haunting you, the details of the horrible day bouncing around in your head like an incessant echo. You had tried to escape reality, but the pain persisted, crept into your dreams and attacked you in the form of night paralysis and feelings of pressure on the chest.

A few months before the accident happened. A terrible car accident took away the love of your life, your sister.

Seeing her half beheaded between the sheets of the car had horrified you to the point of making you vomit on the spot. You screamed desperately, your brow ragged with blood, and his dead eyes now filled your nightmares.

If only that day you had not chosen the wrong path, you were sure, that now life would not be so unlivable.

Your soul weighed like an anvil, dragged you down, and your wings struggled to give you the push you needed to survive.

The nights were all the same: you lay down in your bed, trying to calm down, trying not to think about anything.

And what happened was you fell asleep... but then... then...

At first, you could only feel the languor of falling asleep. However, soon that numbness turned into something more sinister. An invisible but inexorable presence began to tighten your ankles, crawling along your hips and even creeping into your belly. It seemed like a subtle force, unpredictable, penetrating the depths of your bowels.

The sensations became more and more invasive, as if invisible hands shuffled you from within. As you tried to fight against the immobility that imprisoned you in your bed, your ability to breathe was being tested. An invisible but oppressive weight made every inspiration a titanic task.

«We will make it grow», a voice whispered, «we will make it grow», again.

And then the same hands came to your chest, squeezing you, choking you.

Then you’d wake up, turn on the light in panic, your forehead full of sweat, and your heart rate.

The monotonous routine of this anguish was constantly repeated, night after night. Something, a dark, elusive entity, crept into your intimate space and tortured you mercilessly.

It wasn’t just passing visions or post-traumatic stress hallucinations. Reality was carved into your skin, in painful bite marks on your breasts and bruises scattered all over your body. You couldn’t ignore the physical testimony of what happened during those nights of terror.

You looked for answers everywhere, you explored every rational possibility, but the conclusion was inevitable: you were not crazy. Those marks and scars you were carrying were tangible proof that something dark and insidious was happening.

It was a night predator that fed on your terror and vulnerability. And there was no room for rational explanations or psychological excuses. It wasn’t a matter of post-trauma, something real, at night, crawling into your bed, and it wasn’t something you were hiding from yourself: this presence was raping you.

You couldn’t explain how you came to this conclusion, but inside you the answer was becoming more and more obvious.

And so, desperate, you decided to adopt plan B.

The medium you asked for an audience with seemed to be one of the best. You paid her handsomely, and when you let her into your one-bedroom apartment, she twisted her nose.

You had no knowledge of this world, you had no interest in it, and despite your attempts to pretend, you still felt perplexed.

«Miss», the woman in her fifties had called you, while she was searching the living room, «can you take me to the exact place where the "contacts" take place?».

You had gasped, as a slight fear crept into your bowels and appeared in your face.

« I feel your discomfort, how could you not have it? This apartment is full of cursed energy».

Failing to understand what she was mumbling about, you had obeyed her request, making your way down the narrow corridor, and then opening the door.

You stopped in the window and nodded.

You didn’t mean to cross that threshold, just the thought of it made you sick.

The medium, however, had proceeded with her head held high, turning on the lights of the chamber.

The steps resounded muffled in the carpet, while carefully inspecting the desk, then the blankets and pillows of your bed.

«It happens here...», she whispered. She walked the blankets with her hand, until she reached the foot of the bed, «rising from here», she had crouched, as if she were imitating what that presence did to you. Her hands were on the covers. «it blocks your ankles», her hoarse voice resounded in the walls of the room, «it runs through your legs», she crushed the fingers between the unmade blankets, «coming to your belly», she crushed the mattress as if under her there had been you.

«And then...», her hands went up again, cup-locking on those you imagined your breasts might be.

The woman, lowered her head, had no idea what she was actually doing, but you had to admit that her explanation was accurate enough for you to understand that she was not a charlatan.

«It tastes you».

An unpleasant sensation made its way into your stomach, «I understand», she had said to herself, as she was getting out of bed.

He went through her purse, pulling out what appeared to be a talisman.

«In the realization of the talisman it is very important to respect the hourly and planetary correspondences, in fact there is always a specific day and a precise lunar phase to build and consecrate it. You are lucky, today the Moon and the stars are clearly visible», said the woman while consecrating some.

She placed one right under the bed, one above, and another in your bedroom door.

Perplexed, you frowned, «that’s all?» you asked, «three stupid pieces of paper?».

The medium smiled, «do you have other alternatives?».

The question left you motionless, unable to answer.

«no...», you had answered, driving her back to the front door.

«The curse is powerful, but I am sure that this will be able to keep it at bay for a while».

«What?! With all the money you asked me for? Did you manage only to "keep it at bay for a while"? Are you kidding me?» The woman smiled, then gave a small laugh of derision, «maybe you should have called an exorcist?».

You were so frustrated, so... so...

Bitter tears had run down your cheeks, you had dried them almost immediately, trying to keep calm.

Don’t worry, you thought, crashing on the living room couch, wait to see if these talismans work.

***

With wonder and relief, the sleep paralysis that had tormented your nights seemed to be a distant memory.

A week had passed since you could finally close your eyes without the fear of being trapped in a limbo of impotence. Your night’s rest had become a precious refuge, an oasis of peace that you had begun to fully enjoy.

The evenings followed a reassuring ritual: the return home from work, a hot shower that dispelled the accumulated tensions, a satisfying dinner and finally the refuge in the blankets of your bed. Everything seemed to fall into the natural order of things, as if normality had finally returned to claim its place. However, the tranquility you had so longed for was perhaps only an illusion, a prelude to a new chapter of horror.

In the second week of serenity, a strange feeling had crept into the air.

One night, while you slept deeply, the pungent smell of something burning had disturbed your sleep. Your awakening was immediate, and in the darkness, putting the blankets aside, you realized that something was wrong.

Your eyes slowly adapted to the darkness, and before you, the atmosphere lit up with a sinister light. A crackling blue fire enveloped the talisman hanging from your door.

A sense of disbelief enveloped you as a figure began to take shape.

It was a robust body, but its humanity seemed distorted. A man, or perhaps something that might have looked like a man, materialized before your eyes.

Your mind tried to deny what it saw, but terror took hold of you as the breath became disjointed. Your lips rippled in a desperate sigh, while your terrified eyes closed as if they were denying reality. Gasps and sobs were released from your chest as you carried your arms in front of you, as if that impotent gesture could protect you.

You just hoped the last talismans could protect you, but... well...they couldn’t.

You saw it when they both caught fire at the foot of your bed and a cold breath began to move some of your hair.

«You surprised me», a voice made your blood freeze, «closing me out like this...» it was distorted and gruesome as it echoed in the darkness. It had a stamp that sent chills down your spine, and as you desperately tried to move, your impotence became more and more overwhelming.

His scornful laughter echoed through the air like a macabre background. «You tried, you and that stupid bitch», his mocking tone crept into your ears, causing you another sob of terror.

«Go ahead yes, continue to be afraid, it is even better if you cry».

His body locked you in a corner of the bed, leaving you with no way out. You were alone, you and his dark presence, which seemed to devour the air around you. Every word spoken was like a direct blow to your soul, bringing out a sense of degradation and unspeakable terror.

«Did you really think you could stop me from still possessing you? Naive, stupid inferior human», he whispered in your neck, his breath cold as frost on your skin. «I thought you would behave well, like the good pet you are».

His words were filled with contempt, a humiliation that imposed itself on you like a chain, enveloped your spirit.

His words didn’t make sense to you, and yet, you didn’t have the courage to argue, you had the feeling that if you tried to move a muscle, he would tear you apart right in that moment.

You hadn’t yet had the courage to open your eyes to look your tormentor in the face, let alone have the strength to escape from his clutches.

His hands ran down your hips, embedded in their retracting curve.

They put pressure on you, made you scream in fear.

«I had a continuous thought, I have always had it from the first day in which I have seen you», his lips settled languid in your half uncovered belly. Your chest was hurting, your hiccups were shaking and your throat was parting, making it sore.

«Please», you had whispered, «don’t hurt me», your eyes were still closed, full of salty tears.

You had finally had the courage to speak as you laid your hands on his in a desperate attempt to divert them from yourself. You put a little pressure on him, but the guy on top of you didn’t seem to want to cooperate with you. In your desperate act, you saw that his hands presented what appeared to be scars, perhaps... seams?

«Hurt you?» he laughed almost out of control, «I don’t know, I’ll probably do». Your eyes became two saucers, so scared that who was in front of you couldn’t help but notice it.

«Are you afraid? Yes, I imagine it is so, otherwise how could I feel so regenerated?».

Then his face took shape in front of yours.

His two-tone eyes peered at you in the darkness of the night, so evil, so frightening that they cut your breath. His hair covered his sewn face, it was so surreal it felt like a horror movie.

His hands grabbed your wrists with a surprising force, far beyond what would be expected of an ordinary man. Despite your attempt to resist, his grip intensified, and in response to your affront, he gripped your wrists until they broke.

A deafening and desperate scream broke free from your mouth, but the man’s reflexes prevented you from venting your pain altogether, resting his lips on yours.

Disgusting. Disgusting. Disgusting.

He had the urge to lick your lips and grunt angry when you didn't want to.

With your wrists completely broken by now, you couldn’t defend yourself, so he freed them, putting his big, rough hand in your cheeks.

You were hurt and violated, could something worse have happened?

When his hand slipped in your belly to make room between your legs, you knew there was something worse.

«No!» you cried desperately, «no... no, no-».

«Yes, yes, yes, cute, little…».

Your head was beating, your heart seemed to want to explode in your chest, your sore wrists, victims of a broken fracture, were hurting so much that you missed the air.

«You will love this, you will love to take it, won’t you? Will you become the key to my experiment? You will carry my child so well, yes... you will be perfect».

You weren’t listening to almost anything that was vomiting on you, too traumatized, too aching to focus on his words, and it was bad, since he had just confessed his no longer hidden desire to impregnate you.

His hands stripped you of the oversize shirt you were wearing, lifted it up to your breasts, leaving your sensitive boobs exposed.

«I have raped so many women in my life by curse... but you... you are by far the most beautiful of all».

His hands landed in your ribs, forcing you to settle under him.

With one hand he would block you from the neck, keeping you under control as his head went down into your chest, tickling your collarbones with his hair.

When his mouth closed in your turgid sensitive nipple, you tried to look at the ceiling as much as you could. You just hoped it would be over soon, yeah, it would be over quickly, you’d just be estranged, and everything would just seem like a bad nightmare, right?

You told yourself that, but it seemed more complicated than expected.

His mouth sucked mercilessly, popping into your irritated reddened skin.

Bites and bruises took shape in your body, immediately you were back to being the pitiful girl of a few weeks before, while your body lay untidy between the covers of your bed.

Another sinful kiss reached your lips, but you, once again, had not returned it. Your muteness was followed by some hiccups and supplication but nothing seemed to stop the monster above you.

Your body’s natural reaction to his touch made you felt sick . Your bowels twitched at the thought of pleasure, you hated it, you hated that feeling so much, you would rather die.

«Now you will be a good girl, but there is no danger that you will be a bad girl, isn’t it true, pet?» Your half-opened lips made the curse above you even more aroused.

He bit your shoulder and made you bleed, and then, under your increasingly obvious shock, he took off your shorts and panties.

In a moment of lucidity you had brought your sore hands towards your intimacy, crying like a defenseless little girl and still begging him to let you go, to stop, not to do this to you... but nothing seemed to change his mind.

The curse slowly and forcefully pulled your hands from your most sensitive spot, giggling at you and your despair.

«How rude I am», he smiled , «I didn’t even introduce myself».

You struggled frantically in his grip, «As if I could give a fuck! Disgusting monster!».

The sick look of those who were torturing you became even more intense, He licked away your tears, while keeping you perfectly under his control.

«Oh, then you too have a spirit of survival, I thought you had lost the desire to fight», two fingers crept into your wet folds, surprising you.

You had bitten your lips, unable to restrain your weeping, disordered moans.

«I am Mahito», he had whispered in your right ear, while he was fucking you with his fingers, «keep this name in mind», he said kissing your ear shell.

«I am sure that soon you will shout it of your own free will».

Overwhelmed by his brute strength, you couldn’t help but cry.

Your sexual experiences could be counted on the fingers of a hand, what it was doing to you was something so abominable, and yet, your body could not help but react to unwanted caresses.

Dissociating seemed like something impossible, no matter how hard you tried to prove it, the feeling of his fingers inside of you wouldn’t let you get distracted.

Beyond that, the pain in your wrists grew stronger and stronger.

When you saw the face of the curse dipping between your thighs, settling on your violated pussy, you thought this was the first time someone was eating it, and no, it wasn’t something you wanted to get done; your shyness had always blocked you, but now there were no alternatives.

Still clenching your eyes, salty tears fell down your cheeks, now in a silent cry that heralded your destiny.

It was obvious, you couldn’t save yourself, it was too late, and when his tongue had sunk into your wet folds, you couldn’t help but arch your back to get away from his ruthless mouth.

In that desperate refusal, Mahito grabbed you by the side, trapping you in a cruel vise.

He licked all your excitement, lingering on your little feminine bud, there was nothing more annoying when his teeth grabbed him making your lower abdomen numb.

«No... I beg you, enough... I don’t want it», a guttural lament made you tremble like a leaf while the curse didn’t give sign of wanting to yield.

He sucked, then dipped his fingers in your tight opening.

You would have cum, you would have orgasmed, and you would have hated it, you would have hated yourself so much, so much...

With a choked-up moan you let yourself go into the spasms of orgasm, and as much as you hated to admit, it was painfully enjoyable.

He continued to overstimulate you as your thighs squeezed into his face, prey to a primal instinct that even you didn’t understand.

He caused a few complaints, while, horrified, you had noticed that his hand had rushed to rub the erection in his pants.

With a trickle of saliva tying his lips to your messy pussy, you couldn’t help but think the scene was tremendously erotic. Something made you pulse down there, and you certainly wouldn’t forgive yourself.

«Try to be honest with yourself», his voice teased you, while his hands spread out your legs again.

«And don’t hide», he said by rubbing your clitoris quickly.

Your sighs had become little squeaks of torment.

«e-enough... Enough... Too-»

«Poor little pet», he said slapping you in your core, «you are so desperate... You want more, don’t you?»

You were still crying, louder and louder, as you felt something rigid make room for yourself.

«Indeed...», he said, turning on your stomach, his lips in the shell of your ear, «I want to fuck you like a fucking dog, yes, as if we are two animals».

You were shaking like a leaf, and your wrists were throbbing with pain.

«they hurt me, this position... I can’t...», a slap angrily hit you on your buttocks.

«Shut up... be quiet», he bit you in the lobe, while his hands pushed you in the back, forcing you to adhere to the mattress.

Your butt was high, your femininity completely exposed to him, who was still torturing you with his fingers.

When he penetrated you with his monstrous cock, the squeaking from your throat intensified.

When he had started to move his hips in slow but deep and angry thrusts, you had screamed in pain.

Your pussy opened up to him, wrapping his long and big excitement.

A ring of delicious cream had formed around the circumference of the curse, and the more he stopped to study it, the more his horny cock enlarged.

«Don’t you feel what you’re doing to me?» he pulled your hair, forcing you to suffocate in your pillow.

«Don’t you feel how much we are made for each other?» one more push, one more scream from you.

You were a total mess, so physically challenged, you couldn’t even think straight.

The thrusts had become stronger and faster, his hands now, had run down your delicate neck, clutching him in a vise.

Her teeth sank into your back and shoulders as you trickled blood down and dirty the bed and your shirt crumpled over your tits.

«h-help», you had whispered in terror, unable to think clearly, «please».

«I’m sorry to tell you, sweetheart, but nobody will help you», with three other pushes he had come angrily inside you, filling you with his hot cum. You could hear it drip, while in an animal act, it continued to penetrate you without mercy.

«s-someone... Help me».

As you closed your eyes, you couldn’t help but feel the evil laugh of the curse above you.

«We will be together forever», He kissed your back , imperlated of sweat and blood.

«we will be together forever and you will adore it, you will love me, you will give to me a half cursed son».

Completely unconscious, your vision had become clouded, and even this could not block the cursed spirit.

«Open your legs, it will be a long night, you know?».