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cuckoo-on-a-string · 1 year

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Hello, Mr. Monster: The Nightmare's Interlude

Hello, Mr. Monster master list

Summary: Eros and Psyche inspired Soulmate!AU, Morpheus x female OC/reader (18+)

So, as some of you know, I've been very sick for a while. Everything's behind schedule, but then this struck me, so I thought I'd share. The Jeff fan club rides again! The next proper chapter will be out... soon? Not doing the tag list thingy for this, but that will return with the next, proper chapter, and I'll give ya'll a heads up about this blurb in case you missed it then. <3

The nightmare was older than the beds beneath which it lurked. It had slipped a cold, hard grasp around dreamer’s ankles before there were words for either. From the dawn of sleeping things, it startled creatures from fantasies and reminded all of the unseen dangers lurking in dark places. Snakes, spiders, and wicked things with tooth and talon. Worse threats, even: strangers and ghosts, murderers and curious thieves.

When the Nightmare King vanished, the thing from under the bed went looking. It was one of many, in the beginning, but others grew distracted, lost hope, or found fresh inspiration in the delights of the waking world. It did not give up its quest. Traveling from shadows under a bed to those under a low table on the other side of the planet, it searched. It saw without eyes and heard without eats. It listened from under chairs and lurked under parked cars. But the waking world was vast, and after nearly a century of hunting, it began to despair.

The Endless were not gods. And the Nightmare King did not take up his mantle with a light heart. Perhaps he’d left, abandoned his creations to wither and fade.

Was that a kinder end than simply unmaking the Dreaming in one, fell stroke?

Perhaps Dream of the Endless was captured. Or ill. Or enchanted by some fell demon. Perhaps he wasn’t in the waking world at all, and he’d been bound in the deepest circles of Hell, or drugged into bliss beyond the gates of Tir na NÒg. Without word, every possibility was as realistic as the last. The nightmare only knew its lord wasn’t dead. If he’d fallen, another aspect would’ve been given his function, and the Dreaming would not stand in ruins.

So, the nightmare kept searching, obsessed with a new purpose, a new reason for existing, and it decided not to return before its lord.

It found all kinds of things. Lost treasures. Creatures hiding from worse monsters than the dark. Other dreams and nightmares seeking refuge from their increasingly-unstable home. Bottles, buttons, and dust bunnies. Never a hint of its lord.

And then – something.

A thread of power reaching out through a sleeping mind, the glitter of sand and ancient power.

The nightmare rushed through the shadows, following the trace like a bloodhound. It would get there first. It would rescue their lord. They would return to the Dreaming and set all right. A quest fulfilled.

But when it finally chased down the source, it didn’t find Lord Morpheus. It reached up to clutch a very small, very human ankle.

The girl-child jerked awake at its touch, hiccupping on tears, and the nightmare wondered which of its brothers it had interrupted. It did not wonder long, though. It was too busy feeling a new sensation, one it was meant to inspire rather than suffer.

Horror.

This child had been… mangled. Deep within. Her mortality hung in tatters, like curtains in the windows of a haunted house, framing what should have been a miracle. His master’s name. The dream of dreams. But whatever had irreparably damaged the child’s natural place in the flow of life and death had carved over the name.

And there was the sand. In her soul. In her blood.

It must pull her deep into dreams, the poor thing.

She was fortunate to wake at all.

A strong child.

Little fingers brushed over nightmarish crusts and ooze, gentle with papery skin, and the little girl said, “Hello.”

The nightmare had never had a conversation with a human child before, and after a moment’s thought, it gave her ankle a slight, answering squeeze. Nothing to hurt her, but enough to acknowledge and return her greeting.

“Are…” Her voice quavered and died, but she tried again, determined. The nightmare hung on her every breath, waiting.

“Are you here to hurt me, too?”

It released her. Instantly. The shadows swallowed it back under the little princess bed, and it recoiled into the inky black as that new feeling – horror – brought goosebumps to its hairless flesh.

This was its lord’s soulmate. It had seen many come and go from Lord Morpheus’ embrace, but this – well. This was different. This was unique. Something that would not come again, even in another dozen millennia. The little human was precious, even if its master was not there to appreciate and protect the one creature whose wyrd twined so intimately with his.

“Don’t go!” A little face appeared, upside-down over the side of the bed, trying to see in spaces too deep for mortal eyes. Even eyes, the nightmare realized, as clever as hers. Oh, the trouble this child must find.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you. Are you… a nice… monster?”

The nightmare returned to the light slowly, ensuring it wouldn’t scare her, and she smiled, reaching down to shake its hand.

“It’s very nice to meet you, Mr. Monster.”

The nightmare did not realize it at the time, but it was already lost. Lost to the hope in terrified eyes and the smile that invited it into the daylight for tea parties. Lost to slow conversations through knocks and a hand-drawn copy of a Ouija board the girl “saw on tv.”

It explained it was a nightmare, and she explained her name meant “dream,” too. When it said it didn’t have a name in the way she did, she gasped, told it that was terrible, and offered him one.

Jeff.

He became Jeff, and without meaning to, he found a new kind of quest. Even if his lord should never return, Jeff would guard his lady. The little dreamer marked for death with terrible power because she’d first been marked for love.

Protector. Guard. Confidante. Friend, even. He’d never been such things, but he took up the role gladly as the child told him about her parents, who knew something had happened to their child, but couldn’t believe her story about the fairy under the bridge. Jeff believed her, and Jeff remembered.

She explained why her favorite foods were the best, why it was important to have a favorite color, and why swings were her favorite part of the playground.

One day she came in with a little bottle, giggling, and called him out. He stretched into the yellow sun, the tips of his fingers brushing the hem of her lavender dress.

“Mommy made my nails pretty, so now I’m gonna paint yours and make you pretty, too, kay?”

She painted his broken, half-peeled fingernails with glittery purple polish, and they made her so happy he kept them that way a whole week. Jeff would do many things to keep her smiling, because sometimes the terror carved into her young mind swelled until she became sick with it. The fear stole the breath from her lungs and the thoughts from her mind. It came most often in the dark, when she felt most alone, and Jeff held her little foot to assure himself she hadn’t shaken apart into broken pieces, and to let her know he was there.

And then came the night he failed her, the night the child lost her family and stared into the eyeless maw of her soulmate’s favorite creation. Jeff tried. He warned her not to go out, and when she didn’t listen, he pulled her under the bed.

But too late. Not enough.

The Corinthian pulled her out of the shadows and sent her running into the woods. Truly alone, where Jeff couldn’t so easily follow.

The child fled, pursued by hungry things in the night, the Not Deer among them.

The Corinthian returned to the room and smiled down at Jeff, wiping the parents’ blood off his knife.

“Nice girl you had there. Real peach.” The greater nightmare crouched low, taking off his sunglasses. “Not ripe yet, of course. It’s better this way, don’t you think? If she can’t survive a few of us, how could she survive our maker?”

He called, and summoned, and reached for every dream and nightmare he knew walked the waking world without malice. Some of them came. Jeff rallied Polyphemus, the shepherd who once carried the smallest dreamers away from the deeper shoals of Nightmare, into gentler dreams.

Enough came. Enough heard. They did what Jeff could not and snatched the plucked the girl out of reach of her pursuers. Polyphemus, and the nightmare Gault, and Fiddler’s Green – who wore a strange shape and a new name.

When that awful, terrible night had ended, when the child – Aisling – was safe enough in the hands of human authorities, Jeff began leaving for longer and longer periods, hunting ardently for his lord. The girl was not safe. She would never be safe until Dream of the Endless returned.

The fear became worse, paralyzing attacks that interrupted her waking hours.

She struggled in even the most welcoming foster homes, trying to navigate a pitying world that saw her as half-mad at best. And when Jeff reached out to comfort her, the other children screamed and ran to tell adults about the monster under the bed.

Other nightmares came to visit, and Aisling made her roommate cry after she asked to leave the closet door open “so the boogeyman can breathe.”

She did not smile so much.

She did not paint his nails, and she stopped drawing Ouija boards after one foster family subjected her to an exorcism.

Jeff listened to many would-be families plead with her to be good or demand to know why tormented the other children. They wanted her, if only she could behave. If only she’d stop lying. If only she’d stop playing sick pranks on the little ones. If, if, if. They only wanted her if. Jeff had seen her face horrors that could break the human mind and still smile after. He did not know how to help, so he held her ankle as she slept, and her hand when she was grounded.

He went with her to therapy sessions, learning beside her as she developed coping mechanisms to manage the fear. Panic attacks, the therapist called them. But the therapist also pushed her to tell a more palatable truth, to accept a human killed her parents, not a nightmare with mouths for eyes. The therapist wanted Aisling to stop talking to shadows and to make a best friend who wasn’t a monster under the bed.

The child, who was a little less a child every day, refused.

In the silvery glow of a full moon, she looked across the bedroom she – for once – had to herself, and told Jeff, “I won’t let any of them tell me what to be.”

The new families did not accept her, and she did not accept them. She wasn’t cruel, but she wasn’t right or normal, so it never mattered if she was kind (though Jeff knew she was). Rather than waiting for age to liberate her, she demanded the mortal courts recognize her as an adult two years too early. She finished her schooling, found a job near the house her parents left for her, and won her independence.

Then she began collecting folk of the Dreaming. The house where the Corinthian killed her parents was remote, far from the city where she’d been hurt. It was a good place for things too delicate, too big, or too strange for the waking world. Polyphemus came and herded them all, keeping the refugees of the Dreaming safe from the greed of the waking, and keeping the folk of the waking safe from the power of the dreamfolk.

The child who was now a woman had adventures. She traveled and developed her intuition into proper magical skill. The dreams and nightmares were her life, and Jeff continued shifting between the child and his eternal search for his master, determined to fail neither one a second time.

He could not have guessed that the child would complete his first quest without his help.

#fic: hello mr. monster #morpheus x reader #morpheus x oc #sandman x reader #dream of the endless x reader #jeff the nightmare

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roguelov · 1 year

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Crimson Stained Petals (Ch. 2)

Summary: Set in the 1880s, rumors and mysteries swirled around a quaint town, mostly about a lord tucked far into the woods. Arriving in town, you could not deny your curiosities, but you were not here to stay. Or so you thought. Low on funds, and a job for a live-in servant advertised in the paper, you now found yourself in the home of Lord Morpheus - the source of all rumors. Passions and tensions will grow. Questions will be answered, but may come at a hefty price. And a promise may be broken. But, is Lord Morpheus, and those few residents, truly as scary as they seem?

Words Count: ~3.4k

Reader: Neutral (unspecified now, however fem leaning)

Warnings: Minor angst (hints of Morpheus’s past), mutual pinning, some fluff, hints of bloodlust

Chapter 1, Chapter 3

After a week of working in the manor, you quickly found routine in your new life. It was far easier than anticipated, although somewhat tiring at points. And despite exploring the manor, you still tended to become lost or forgetful where certain rooms were. It was massive to say the least, but you adored the architecture, the different colors and styles of each room, and the obvious love - even if slightly dusty due to negligence - poured into it. Two rooms in particular captured your interest and attention: the upstairs library, and the sunroom.

The sunroom was magical. The glass - a soft sea green - dome roof sparkled in any and all lighting. On sunny days, it was as if the heavens rained down on this secret cove. Plants of all colors and variety outlined the room from vibrant dark green ferns - nearly an envious green - to signature staple of the manor’s passionate red roses as well as strong and proud sunflowers, delicate lilacs, and the intricate petals of the blushing pink carnations. Fern leaves as large as dinner plates bent towards the doorways like curtains. You could not help but imagine you were an explorer traversing the jungle as you entered.

In the center, a couch, two chairs, and a table were set out. However, there was a very obvious empty space for furniture to be pushed aside. The true beauty of the room was it could double as a ballroom if needed. You could see where a musician could sit, you could imagine a dozen people dancing in unison, you could feel the air crackle with potential energy. When you walked the pristine tile floor sang with every step of your shoe, heels clacked and echoed like a chorus; imagining a group of people in here, and oh how the room would harmonize.

The library, on the other hand, was quaint and far less grandiose compared to the sunroom. Yet, it held its own type of magic, one of comfort and warmth. It was draped in rich dark browns, glowing oranges of the sun and lanterns, and overall warm tones. The walls had built-in shelves and overflowed with books. A single thin window with a nook to sit and read by sunlight was nestled between two shelves. Two long wooden tables with chairs were placed in the room, almost more of studying than reading comfortably.

The air in the library was calmer, and gentle like an escape, or a brief pause on life. If you strolled over to the collection of books, most were published from Morpheus’s company ‘The Dreamer’s Palace’. Which wasn’t too surprising, but the library held many other books from the popular to the unknown. Every genre filled the shelves: drama, contemporary, romance, horror, fantasy, mystery, nonfiction, mythology, and poetry. You had worlds at your fingertips and each of them called to you.

When you had time, you would eventually borrow a book, with Morpheus’s permission of course. Maybe you could take the book and lounge in the sunroom, now that sounded like a lovely idea.

However, you supposed there was another place besides the sunroom and library to entertain you and your thoughts. You desperately wished to explore the ground, especially the maze. The rose maze enthralled you. The hedges must be ten feet tall, barring all from sneaking a single glance in. The full, perfect lush red roses filled the hedges and dazzled in the sunlight while somehow seemingly glowed in the moonlight. With the moon above, they tempted you like some Greek tragedy. The maze was your labyrinth. Maybe a monster lurked among the roses, maybe you would become lost and lose your sense of self, or maybe it was simply just a maze.

One day.

One day, you would run freely through the hedges and happily lose yourself amongst them.

Late in the morning, Morpheus had requested some tea. If it wasn’t in the morning after what you expected a long night, then he requested afternoon tea for one last boost to finish the day. Light seemed to always shine under the crack of his door. His footsteps creaked along the home constantly even as you laid still in bed.

Maneuvering up the stairs, you carefully balanced a kettle and a tea cup with a saucer. Stepping onto the second floor, you immediately veered left. Morpheus’s study was the first door. You knocked, announcing yourself. His reply was muffled, but allowed you in.

Opening the door, Morpheus was hunched over his desk. Stacks of paper covered his desk, with his pen scratching away editing and making revision notes on a new manuscript. A dying fire crackled as embers burned a reddish orange hue casting the room in a radiating warmth. The curtains were opened showing off the dreary morning. Rain tapped against the window, adding to the ambiance.

You beelined for Morpheus. You efficiently, as possible, set up his tea in the small corner space free of papers. Morpheus - who had been watching not just since you walked in, but since you first arrived - wondered about something that had been bothering him for a few days. The scratching of his pen seized, and he glanced out of the corner of his eye. “May I ask you a question?”

You paused as you set up his tea. It was one of the few other times he addressed you, besides your first interaction and occasionally calling for tea. Shaking yourself out of your stupor, you poured his tea. “Of course, sir.”

He laid down his pen, and turned his head to address you. His eyes - an enchanting pale blue in such dim lighting - locked with yours. “You are not afraid of me.”

You stepped back from him, having finished your assigned task. The kettle left besides his cup if he wished to have more later. You folded your hands in front of you with the empty tray in your hands. His sentence tossed over and over in your head. You frowned slightly in thought, “That is not a question.”

The corner of his lips twitched upward. “You are correct, apologies. I suppose I was more inquiring about your opinion.”

“On what?”

“Myself, and said rumors that circulate the manor.”

You didn’t need time to think. Most people warned you of this place whether directly or indirectly. “The townspeople have their beliefs and I have mine.”

“So you have no care for the matter?”

“I can form my own opinions.” You cocked your head quizzically, “I’m sorry, but did Lucienne not inform you of my answer? She asked a similar question during the interview.”

“She did, but I wish to hear it from you especially given you have been staying with us for more than over a week now.” He twisted his body in his chair, facing you directly. He gave you his full undivided attention. “So what are your opinions? What do you think of the rumors?”

You paused, considering his question. “Do you want my honest opinion, sir?”

You had your opinions. Ones that had been slowly formulating since your arrival, ones that may be an unpleasant truth to hear.

“I do.” He saw the hesitation written plainly on your face. “You can be blunt.”

You nodded, and sighed releasing any tension. “If you wish -“ you cleared your throat - “the way I see it you revel in said rumors. You can easily dispel them by ingraining yourself more into society, but you don’t. You do the donations, you have the well liked bookshop, but you do not show your face. Either you isolate yourself to protect yourself, or because you believe you deserve it - deserve the isolation.”

Morpheus hummed, utterly fascinated by your answer. “Truly? And what do you think? Why would I sever my connection to society?”

Your eyes dragged up and down over his body - you were dissecting him. Morpheus noted how a change came over you. You were not a servant, head bowed, but an equal with a sharp eye. You were clever, far more clever than you let on. A mask had momentarily slipped. “Because you deserve it or so you believe.”

He nodded. You may have indulged a mere facet of his curiosity, but somehow stirred more within this one conversation. He turned back to his work, “Thank you for indulging me.”

“Is there anything else you need, sir?” You smiled, and your tone suggested a hint of teasing, “Any other of my opinions you wish to know?”

His smile was hidden from you. “No, thank you.”

“Of course.” You bowed and swiftly left.

“And do not feel frightened to share your honesty.” He spoke the next sentence softly, whispering, “I enjoy it.”

You paused at the door. A faint flutter hummed in your chest. “If you wish, sir.”

I do, he thought.

You turned your head, glancing back once more. He had returned to his work. Your mind thought back on the conversation, on Morpheus’s self imposed isolation. You opened your mouth, only to quickly close it and simply left. As the door softly clicked shut, Morpheus put his head into his hands.

A mortal.

A foolish mortal who had unknowingly walked into the lion’s den. His thirst rose when you walked by, and the smell of you now imbued his home. Before he remembered a time when his thirst could be quelled for months at a time, unbothered or unaffected by hunger. But now as you freely roamed his halls, he could barely go a few days without feeling its intense and paralyzing effects. The taste of human blood has not touched his lips in nearly a century.

Idiot, he thought. Why did I allow this?

“I believe it would do you some good sir,” Lucienne pressed. She had approached her lord, proposing to introduce a servant, more so a cleaning servant, into the manor. Or more accurately cornered him in his study.

Morpheus huffed under his breath. “Lucienne, I respect you and your opinions, however, this is ridiculous and out of the question.”

“Lord Morpheus, you need to try more or dare we have another fiasco such as the last manor.”

Ah, yes, how could he forget.

He had gotten complacent in his solitude. He kept to himself, and worked on new stories that continued to be sent in from all over. He only cared about his work, and nothing else.

No. That was incorrect.

No, he was purposely drowning himself in it; all to forget the painful heartache. No, he had not gotten complacent in solitude, he had gotten complacent in his endless grief. Let the people gossip, he bitterly thought. Let them believe in the monster. He did not care for his world were these dingy walls with the ghost roaming amongst them.

But, a strange man who lived on the outskirts of town stirred vile imaginations. After a decade and possibly longer of living - in what Morpheus ignorantly believed to be peace - the townspeople charged one night forcing everyone to flee.

He had to rebuild.

He had to remake himself in this new town. He had hoped his donations would soothe the townspeople, but mortals were weary of newcomers and indulged in their superstitions far too often.

Even if their intuitions were right most of the time.

A tap on the window broke Morpheus out of his thoughts, his memories. Through the haze of the night, a small black mass was perched on the window sill. Morpheus wordlessly strolled over and opened the window. A bird, a raven specifically, swooped in and landed on the desk.

“And what do I owe the pleasure, Matthew?” Morpheus asked, facing the raven.

The raven shuffled, his talons clacked against the wood. “Sorry to interrupt, boss, but Merv is asking for something for the pain again. He says his supply is almost out.”

Morpheus’s features softened, a miniscule change. “Okay, tell Merv I will send for more immediately.”

Matthew nodded, but he did not move.

“Is there something else you need?” Morpheus asked, raising his eyebrow.

Matthew sighed, sinking a bit. “I may or may not have been listening to yours and Lucienne’s conversation.”

Morpheus’s lips thinned, not angered Matthew was listening - it was nothing new - but because he knew Matthew would side with Lucienne. “And what do you think of the matter then?”

“Well,” he drawled out, “I have been visiting the town a bit, and some of the people have begun to talk and they’re not too … happy.”

Morpheus barely contained his eye roll. “I have done all I can to appease them, if they want to make speculations then let them. I don’t harm them in any capacity.”

It was true. His diet these days consisted solely of animals.

“Maybe an appearance at the bookshop then,” Lucienne suggested. “But, I still urge you to hire someone. If others see someone unharmed in your care then it would lessen the problem.”

“I will not bring a stranger into my home just so mortals can stop gossiping.”

“If not for you then for us, for the manor. We already had to run once.”

Morpheus frowned.

Lucienne cautiously stepped forward. “You opened your door to me - for Mervyn, and Matthew - you brought in a stranger once before.”

“That was different. This will be a mortal, Lucienne.”

“And do you not trust yourself, or do you not want a repeat?”

Morpheus’s shoulders tensed. An intense, chilling, glare settled into his eyes. His eyes glowed ominously like a feral animal. “Lucienne, I will ask you once to not bring that up again.”

Lucienne stepped back, but did not look away. She held her ground in a way. “Apologies, sir, but I do not want to find a new place so soon.”

Matthew chirped up, disliking the heavy tension in the room. He flapped his wings to turn all the attention onto him. “And it would be nice for you, boss. The manor has been gathering dust, so it would be good for all of us, right?”

Morpheus closed his eyes then exhaled slowly. Opening his eyes, they had returned to a normal shade. “Fine.”

“What?” Matthew muttered, stunned.

“Bring someone in, do what you must.” He turned his back. “If we can survive another decade here peacefully then do so. I don’t want to start again so quickly.”

“Of course, sir, thank you.” Lucienne bowed her head and left as Matthew swooped after her.

Look at all the good it has done, Morpheus thought.

Morpheus was confined to these walls with you lurking around. You were haunting him, and you reminded him of -

He shook away those memories. He had a new ghost in his home and he had to deal with this unfortunate reality. This wasn’t about him, this was about Lucienne, Matthew, and Mervyn. They were lucky last time to escape before the home burned, but luck always ran out. If people discovered the truth, if they came in the night unheard, he couldn’t forgive himself for anything that would happen to his friends - his family.

This was his family unlike the one born from blood.

Meanwhile as you strolled away from Morpheus’s study, your thoughts were tangled together. He was odd. Polite, yes. But, odd. He created a wedge between him and most; a wedge you clearly saw. In the short time you were living here, it was becoming obvious who Lord Morpheus was: a tortured soul. But, why? What drove him to this state? If you were to continue to live here, you would find out.

Curiosity was powerful, and you had your reasonings to do so.

Taking the tray to the kitchen, you once again passed by another oddity in the manor: the plain wooden door under the stairs. Earlier in your adventures of the manor, you tried to open it to no avail.

“I wouldn’t keep trying if I were you.” You whirled around - panicked you had been caught - and thankfully only saw Lucienne. She smiled, a joking smile, at your reaction. Her eyes darted to the lock door. “It leads to the basement where the plumbing goes.”

You frowned, disappointed.

“Sorry, I know it’s not as wondrous as you might think.” She strolled forwards, eyes kept on the door. “But I assure you, it’s not pleasant down there. It’s damp and dark with old pipes.”

Her eyes flickered over, locking with yours. She peered over her glasses to ensure she looked at you directly. ‘Don’t’ was all her eyes said.

“I suppose the wonders of plumping is something I’m not too keen about,” you chuckled lightly.

Her smile softened, and laughed along with you. “No, I don’t think most are. Now, if you excuse me, I was going to get a drink.”

She skirted by you towards the kitchen. Once, she was down the hall and out of sight, your eyes swiveled back to the door. Only one thought ran through your mind: she’s lying. You pressed your hand to the door. In your chest, deep within your bones, something hummed on the other side.

Stepping back, you searched and no one was around. If not today, but one day you will see what was behind that door. A voice told you to be cautious in your curiosity, but to also not let it die out. Trust your gut. And your gut needed the door to be opened to reveal all its secrets.

You paused, running your hand over the grain of the wood. The hum still called out. Similar to how you swore to uncover the secrets of a Morpheus, this door fell under it as well. This manor reeked of secrets and lies. It did not frightened you, not in the least. It compelled you. And the rumors only spurred your thirst for knowledge.

But, today was not the day. All of this required a touch of patience.

A skill you honed over the years.

Brushing past, you made your way into the kitchen dropping off the tray. Glancing out the window, the late rainy morning reminded you of all the hours you still had left in the day. You sighed.

Now, what should I do?

The rest of the day you decided to busy yourself with cleaning the kitchen. Most of the appliances were new, and strangely did not seem to be used as frequently since some dust had collected on them, much like the rest of the manor. You scrubbed the cabinets and the floor, cleaned dishes and silverware, and threw away any rotted food - which was surpassingly little. The kitchen nearly sparkled by the end of your work, and luckily the day had passed between all of it.

You retired for the night and drew a well deserved and needed bath. You soaked for almost an hour, letting your skin prune and your thoughts wander: thoughts of the manor, thoughts of Lucienne, thoughts of the mysterious gardener, thoughts of Morpheus, and thoughts of your past and life now.

You sighed, sinking into the water until it barely touched your nose.

Here was a new start with new promises while the past still loomed heavily over your shoulders. No, you truly couldn’t start anew until the past was settled. You knew this, and you were constantly reminded of it.

With the water now cold, you decided to get out. You dried off and pulled on your night clothes. Shuffling out of the bathroom, you passed the writing desk.

You paused.

Changing direction from your cozy bed, you veered to the desk. You needed to write a letter, one you had forgotten - and may have purposely neglected - to write. You plopped down into the creaky wooden chair and began to write a letter. Amongst your initial search of the desk, you were surprised, and thankful, to find paper and ink already inside the drawer.

You had an old promise to keep.

You pulled out a paper and addressed it to your uncle. An uncle who raised you and taught you many things. An uncle who you spoke exclusively in letters since leaving his home nearly over a decade ago. You loved him dearly, and hoped maybe one day after your journey of self discovery, and possibly after truly settling down, you would visit him again.

Under a candlelight, you wrote about the past week. You spoke of your new job, your new lord, and the others who lived here - even if you spoke only to one. You spoke how this job could be the one, the one to change your life. You told him he was still always in your thoughts, and wondered how he was doing since his new retired life per his last letter. You smiled down at the letter, and signed it. You neatly folded it, and tucked it into an envelope to send at the earliest convenience.

Maybe Lucienne could take it to the post office for you, or maybe you’ll make a visit into town.

The decision will come later, for now you need to sleep.

#the sandman #the sandman au #morpheus #dream of the endless #vampire!morpheus #vampire!dream #morpheus x reader #dream x reader #dream of the endless x reader #vampire!morpheus x reader #vampire!dream x reader #fem!reader

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abiggerphrooblem · 9 months

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Five Times Jonathan Was a Gentleman

Synopsis:

“When have you ever been a gentleman?” they whined anyway.

His eyes flashed with another predatory look. “You have no idea how many times I’ve been a gentleman.”

-- Mutually Assured Destruction, Part 10

All the times Jonathan had very impure, ungentlemanly thoughts about civilian.

CW: Explicit thoughts about sex, some dark fantasies that edge into dubcon.

Part one

Jonathan was considered many things: utterly ruthless, mercurial, manipulative, greedy, paranoid. All traits society considered despicable and he considered necessary for survival. But one thing he and society could agree on was the importance of being a gentleman.

There was a distinct difference to him in hurting someone for kicks and hurting someone because it was necessary. And just because he was willing to do the latter didn’t mean any other time he couldn’t value manners and decorum.

But Civilian tested that theory ever since the first moment they spoke.

Of course, he had noticed Civilian long before the elevator ride. He noticed how much they noticed and yet no one noticed them. They had the exact unassuming, quiet aura he tried so hard to project, slipping underneath everyone’s attention. And yet Jonathan did not slip underneath theirs.

It drove him a little mad trying to figure out the reason why, assessing his behaviors, his look, his clothes, for any hint to his true nature. But he had never even spoken so much as a “good morning” to Civilian. They had no reason to avoid him and yet took great pains to do so.

It made that confrontation in the elevator so much sweeter for it.

“Look, I don’t know what you’re doing here and I don’t want to know. If I tell anyone about you, it will blow my secret too. So just . . . let me stay out of your way?” Civilian pleaded, the sweet sound of his victory. “Please?”

Having Civilian backed against the wall, feeling the jackrabbit beat of their heart, the breath stuttering in their lungs, the blood racing through their veins, he had a very ungentlemanly thought flare up in his mind.

He wondered what would happen if he leaned his body against theirs and kissed them. If they would let him, too afraid to stop him. If they would whimper, the sound vibrating in their throat.

If they would kiss back, pliant as putty against him.

A ridiculous thought, honestly, not to mention a little disturbing. He was a ruthless bastard, yes, but even he had limits of the kind of tactics he used for intimidation.

And yet, when he opened his mouth again, the offer of a date came spilling out, unprompted and unplanned. Of course, after his split second of horrified shock, he spun into a perfectly logical plan, so airtight he almost fooled himself.

That evening he paid for dinner, let them set the pace and boundaries for conversation, and escorted them to their car, because he was a gentleman. Deep down. In his own way.

He couldn’t stop himself, though, from teasing them about a goodnight kiss. Just as he couldn’t stop himself from imagining that wide-eyed flush on their face as he took that good night kiss.

Part Four

Did he enjoy horror movies about vampires and demons and other impossible creatures? Absolutely — ever since he was a kid. But watching Civilian squirm in their seat as they ripped the napkin to shreds proved far more entertaining. Just as watching them take in Rothke for the first time, Jonathan found himself rather mesmerized with their reactions.

At work Civilian tried so hard to pass as a boring, timid little mouse. They hid all the best parts of themselves — their wit, the spark of their anger, their bravery. And now, every Saturday, Jonathan looked for more and more ways to uncover vibrant parts of Civilian, like digging for gems in a coal mine.

He could feel the artificial fear coursing through them. Their heart leaped with each jump scare, their blood pounded with the thick anticipation of the monster on screen. Sometimes they even forgot to breathe until Jonathan sent their lungs stuttering as a reminder. He could even feel their teeth grin in their clenched jaw.

They felt so alive.

It took nearly a half hour before their self-restraint broke and they screamed at the sight of long black tentacles bursting through someone’s chest. Jonathan felt merciful, so he traced his fingertips lightly over their inner wrist, reveling in the pounding rush of their blood, before tangling their fingers together.

“Should we leave early, before you wet yourself?” he found himself murmuring against their ear.

They shuddered, spine trembling, teeth biting against their bottom lip.

Fascinating, he thought.

“Why did you pick this movie?” they hissed, sounding like an angry cat.

“Maybe that’s my power — I’m not afraid of things that aren’t real,” he retorted, making sure to brush his lips against their ear as he did so.

“Maybe your power is being an obnoxious prick,” they muttered, scrunching further down in their seat.

He wondered if they would shiver again if he bent down and pressed his lips against their ear, if the tip of his tongue darted to trace the curve of it. Or would they just bite their lip harder as he traveled down their neck, scraping teeth over their pounding jugular and feeling the flush bloom in their bloodstream.

What would it take to get them to gasp, knowing they were in public surrounded by a hundred people? Sucking hard at the junction of their neck and shoulder. Licking a stripe back up to their jaw? Murmuring low in their ear exactly what he could do to them in the back of the theater while everyone stayed distracted?

He’d never know, of course. He was a gentleman.

Part 5

The truth had to come out sooner or later. As much as he enjoyed their little guessing game, it couldn’t last forever. He had to admit he got uncharacteristically angry at their clear dismissal of his power. As if he were one of the dime a dozen telekinetics on the street corner moving pennies and bending spoons for spare change. As if being one those telekinetics wouldn’t have made his life infinitely more bearable.

He may have lost control of some of his perfect self control revealing to Civilian just exactly the kind of person they were dealing with. Their heart fluttered like a bird beneath his power, moving more and more sluggishly as he slowed it down and then thrashing as he sped it up.

There was nothing more intoxicating than having someone completely at his mercy. It satisfied the darkest parts of his mind, as did the sudden vision of pressing Civilian further against the rock and kissing them until they couldn’t know if their lack of breath came from his power or his touch. He could slip into their jeans and their synapses and make them come uncontrollably while they shivered against him, fear and arousal mingling into a maddening cocktail.

Those thoughts evaporated when Civilian collapsed to their knees. That was when he realized he may have gone too far. He stood by his reasons -- Civilian’s cavalier attitude was dangerous to them both and he had grown rather fond of them. It would be a shame to have to kill them to protect himself and his interests.

But perhaps he shouldn’t have played with their heartbeat.

“ . . .Civilian?”

Now, he could feel the symptoms of their panic attack gripping their body. Worry fluttered in his chest. What if they had a weak heart already? Fuck, what if he caused their heart attack right here?

Kneeling down beside them, he took hold of their heart and lungs, smoothing out the staccato jerks of their pulse and breath.

“Breathe, Civilian,” he murmured.

What was wrong with him, comforting Civilian so soon after threatening them? He should have left them on this mountain top. He should have killed them in their car that night in the elevator.

Instead his thumbs reached out to wipe the tears from their cheek, almost as if someone else was piloting him. His powers tilted their chin up to look at him, as if he needed reassurance.

“I’m not getting out of this alive, aren’t I?”Civilian whispered.

Guilt left a sour taste in his mouth. He didn’t feel it often, had made it a habit not to in fact. Now it twisted in his gut like a snake. Civilian shook at his feet, having no idea how much power they had in their hands over Jonathan’s future. How much fear they cultivated in him.

“That depends on you,” he said, trying to be kind. It wasn’t their fault he didn’t trust anyone. It wasn’t their fault that he picked their bank to work at, that he noticed them despite their best efforts to hide.

“I like you, Civilian,” he admitted. It wasn’t even a half lie or an obscured truth. “I have no desire to hurt you. But I have a goal I must complete and no one can get in my way, not even you. If you don’t fear me, you may feel emboldened to do something stupid and reckless and heroic. And then I would have to kill you. Do you understand?”

They nodded and relief broke inside him. Civilian would go home, sleep this off, and they could resume the comforting routine of their false relationship. And maybe Jonathan would sleep better, no longer worried about Civilian running their mouth to the wrong people.

“Good.”

He offered them a hand and they took it, to his surprise. They swayed on their feet, rising too soon. Jonathan steadied them with an arm around their waist the urge to kiss them again flashed like a camera bulb in his head. A soft kiss, sweet and reassuring with just enough filth to distract them from their fear.

“Civilian?” he murmured, unsure of what he was even asking. His face leaned closer to theirs an inch or two, without even thinking. A stray tear glittered in the corner of Civilian’s eye, sparking the harsh reminder of what he had just done to them.

A kiss would not fix this.

“Shall we head back?” he asked instead.

He was a gentleman, after all.

Part Eight

The guilt on the mountain could not possibly compare to now, with Civilian dead asleep on his couch, fighting off a high grade fever because of him. Because their fear over what he might do to them overpowered the sane decision to stay home sick. Because they thought him a murderous psychopath that would kill them for the slightest hint of paranoia.

Any hope had about things returning to normal was obliterated in that first painful work lunch on Monday. Civilian acted like a wooden cutout of themselves, giving him one word answered, eyes flickering to the door, looking as if he had already signed their death warrant.

But he had hoped, given time, the chill could melt back into their previous camaraderie.

And then they showed up to work with a 102 degree fever.

Jonathan believed in necessary suffering. Especially if it were necessary for his continued survival. But this was not necessary. Civilian making themselves sick with the constant fear of their uncontrollable and impending death was not necessary.

So he had no guilt about essentially kidnapping them and keeping them at his apartment so long as they continued to improve. It had been a very long time since he had taken care of anyone else but himself, and those memories were kept locked away in a box that hurt too much to think about.

But he found it easy to keep them hydrated, cook them soup, let them watch their stupid, infuriatingly addictive design show.

As the show progressed and he gave up any pretense of pretending not to watch it, he couldn’t help the thoughts that slowly crept in, how else to care for Civilian:

Washing their hair in the shower, rubbing the soapy loofah over their back and thighs and chest in sure, slow passes. Getting on his knees and pressing them against the shower wall and not stopping until he could taste their orgasm on his tongue, even if he drowned. Sitting them on his lap on the couch, cradling them against his chest as he fucked them with sweet and steady strokes.

The sound of Civilian struggling to sit up snapped him out of his daydream.

“What are you doing?” he asked, somewhat exasperated.

“I’m getting more tea,” they said.

“I’ll get the tea. You start the next episode. I need to see that prick get eliminated.”

“I can make my own tea by now,” they protested.

He snatched their empty mug regardless.

“Sit. You won’t lift a finger while you’re here, whether you like it or not.”

A gentleman always takes care of his charges.

Part Nine

As much as he loved Shakespeare, as much as he loved watching the sheer unadulterated delight on Civilian’s face as they watched the play, Jonathan wanted nothing more than to drag Civilian out of the theater. He wanted nothing more than to find a darkened hallway or a bathroom or even their car in the edge of the parking garage.

He wanted to kiss and lick and bite them, he wanted to hook their leg around his waist and buck into them, he wanted to take them with a hand over their mouth and his mouth on their neck with a ferocity that quite frankly worried him.

He had to reckon with himself, as Benedict and Beatrice reckoned with their own feelings, that he wanted Civilian. Not as a distraction, or a manipulation, or a way to stroke his own ego and live out his own twisted fantasies, but just wanted them. He liked them, liked simply being around them.

Ridiculous.

The horrifying realization followed him into the suspiciously sticky interior of the old arcade he let Civilian drag them to because he didn’t want the night to end just yet.

And he had reason to suspect that maybe Civilian would let him fuck them, that part of them wanted him even though it went against their precocious morals and complicated dynamic.

He had a feeling, judging from the spike of heart rates when he got near, the stolen glances at him, the way they hugged that hideous frog plush, that if he pushed them against the door of their car and kissed them senseless they would have no objections.

But he didn’t fuck them in a darkened hallway or kiss them in a parking lot because Jonathan would be leaving soon. And a gentleman didn’t kiss and run.

But goddamn, did that restraint take all his self control that night.

#mutually assured destruction #villain x civilian #hero x villain #m rating #enemies to lovers #my writing

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indierpgnewsletter · 1 year

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New Itch Games for April & May

Been quiet on here but I'm back now!

It’s the itch.io round-up of new games! Now coming to you once every two months because that sounds easier. Usual disclaimer: This comes from be browsing itch.io and people self-submitting through the form. I haven’t played these games and mostly am just going by how interesting they sound to me. Okay, let’s go:

The Hollow Queen: This is a GM-less horror game from Venezuelan designer, Felix Rios, about a dark force haunting the streets and the people trying to uncover it. It uses the diceless Ten Coins system and is available in Spanish.

Contact: A game where you use a music playlist and tarot cards to play through a story about trying to make contact with aliens. I think the idea is that the songs contain encoded messages from the aliens, which is a neat reversal of the Voyager Golden Record. By j strautman.

Tangled Blessings: This is a solo dark fantasy game set in a magic school. It’s a solo/duet game, building on Anamnesis by Sam Leigh. You explore the secrets of this weird school while dealing with a rival who’s making your life difficult. Designed by Cassi Mothwin.

Strike Force Omega: This is LUMEN game about science-fantasy supersoldiers coming back for one last stand, defending their homes in a time of war. By Chris Longhurst, designer of See Issue X and Pigsmoke.

Thirty Foes (OR Once again, we are defeated): In a similar premise, but much more focused on the drama rather than tactics, this is Seven Samurai but cosmic cowboys. They sling cosmic power and defend against bandits. And they’re probably going to die. From Rat Wave Game House.

Thief and Druid: Two games from Stéphanie Dusablon. Both are solo games with an optional journaling element. Thief uses the Push system and Druid uses the Firelights system. I’m not sure if this is a series that will expand to all the D&D classes but it’s a neat idea.

Skyrealms: This is a fantasy bestiary, setting, and solo adventure game about three floating islands in the misty heights, full of secrets and strange creatures. It’s from Iko and Armanda Haller. You can also use the bestiary as a colouring book apparently!

In The Blind: This is a sci-fi horror game about working class people trying to do their job and instead facing the darkness of space. This is a free preview and showcases how good Riley Daniels, designer of As The Sun Forever Sets, is at visual design.

Queenless: This is another Firelights game from solo game blog, Croaker RPGs. You play as members of the hive, exploring the world and protecting your home from destruction.

When Prophecy Fails: Nick Wedig makes a game about cultists and what happens when their foreseen apocalypse doesn’t happen. I’ll give you a hint: they often get even more radical. Based on the For the Queen. (PWYW)

The Score: Tin Star Games GM-less storygame where you tell a heist movie in 18 minutes using 18 cards.

SDM: Eternal Return Key: Luka Rejec follows up Ultraviolet Grasslands with a full OSR-style rulset and more weird setting. It has the same much-loved psychadelic vibe from the original and there’s a free art-less version as well.

the city begins to exist: A citybuilding game with some solid prompts. I can always use more citybuilding games! Designed by kay w.

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pixies-and-poets · 4 months

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Music of the Night - Chapter Seven (Final Chapter!)

Wow! I made it to the end!

WARNING!!!! All the body horror I've been hinting at this whole time REALLY CULMINATES HERE! This is NOT a pleasant ending, physically or emotionally! I know I normally write cute fluffy things but I am not kidding about this one! It's intense!!

There will be some thanks for certain inspiration/ideas at the end of the chapter, but I won't put them here at the beginning so as not to spoil things.

Chapter One - In Sleep He Sang to Me

Chapter Two - Do I Dream Again?

Chapter Three - Our Strange Duet

Chapter Four - To Glance Behind

Chapter Five - Those Who Have Seen Your Face

Chapter Six - Where Night is Blind

Close your eyes, For your eyes will only tell the truth And the truth isn't what you want to see. In the dark it is easy to pretend That the truth is what it ought to be. Softly, deftly, music shall caress you Hear it, feel it, secretly possess you Open up your mind, Let your fantasies unwind In this darkness which you know you cannot fight, The darkness of the music of the night.

Chapter Seven - Angel of Music

The Beast lumbered forward, huffing out great snorts of air, until his hairy face was only a few feet from Woodrow’s.

“TRESPASSER,” came a deep and distorted growl, through which was only slightly recognizable the old familiar voice of the woodsman. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING AT MY HOUSE.”

“Well,” said the poet, with the type of unflappable bravery only brought on by complete exhaustion of both body and soul, “You weren’t using it. In fact, I don’t believe you can even fit in the door anymore. Besides, you always let me stay over, in bygone days.”

“I WAS A FOOL THEN,” came the snarling voice. “A PUSHOVER. YOU… YOU ALWAYS THINK YOU GET WHAT YOU WANT… EVER SINCE YOU BECAME WARDEN.”

“Now, that’s not true at all-” protested Woodrow, but the Beast continued.

“PATHETIC… POET… YOU DON’T EVEN WORK WITH ANYTHING REAL. JUST YOUR FANCY LITTLE WORDS… I SHOULD HAVE BEEN IN CHARGE…”

Woodrow swallowed, trying not to take it personally. He didn’t really think this, he told himself. Sweetlopek always respected you… he never WANTED to be warden… it’s the darkmess talking, it’s Cursa, it’s not HIM. Still, with those words, it was as though the creature had shoved a claw deep into the poet’s chest.

“YOU THINK YOU RULE THIS PLANET… YOU AND THAT BRATTY LITTLE FAIRY…”

“Sweets!” cried the warden in dismay. “Come now- speak of me how you like, but don’t talk of Dryad that way. You- she loves you. And you love her. Don’t… don’t you remember?”

“I CHOOSE NOT TO,” the lumberjack said. “AN EMBARRASSING TIME. I FELL UNDER HER SPELL. I SERVE A BETTER MASTER NOW. I’VE BEEN HUNTING THAT LOATHSOME…LITTLE…PIXIE… AND WHEN I CATCH HER… I’LL RIP HER APART.”

Now the warden’s expression changed into one that was rare for him- one of deep fury. “Don’t you DARE say that,” he hissed, pushing himself away from the door and stepping forward. “You fool, Sweetlopek! Keep Dryad’s name out of your mouth until you come to your senses.”

“I’LL HAVE MORE THAN HER NAME IN MY MOUTH, WHEN I GNAW ON HER BONES-”

“MONSTER!!” cried the warden, losing control of himself. He lunged forward, grabbing the Beast with both paws by the beard, and glared into his yellow eyes. “You snap out of it right this instant, you-”

And then the giant woodsman wrapped a paw around the entirety of Woodrow’s slender body, picked him up, and flung him across the glade.

The warden skidded along the ground until he slammed into a tree. Dizzy, he staggered to his feet just in time to see the Beast thumping towards him on all fours.

“Sweet- my friend-” he wheezed, “Stop-”

But the woodsman picked up the warden and threw him again, this time directly into another tree. He slammed into the trunk with his back, and then slid down onto the leaves below, bark flaking off and splinters becoming embedded in his coat. During all this, Jinx rushed in a panic to keep up with him.

The monster galloped over to him again, seeming to make a game out of this and to be greatly enjoying it, like a dog playing fetch with himself. Woodrow, somehow both defiant and resigned, stared at the grinning, fanged face that was approaching.

“Kill me then!” he shouted. “O, kill me then! Let me die at the hands of my dearest friend!”

But just before the Beast could reach Woodrow to menace him anew, a black-and-white blur, almost as big as the creature itself, shot out of the woods and tackled the threat to the ground.

After losing speed, the blur resolved itself in Woodrow’s vision, and he gasped. It was… Phantom. He looked much the same as Woodrow had left him - pale and dripping with darkmess - only now he seemed to be filled with a wild energy, his hair flowing in a supernatural wind. The biggest change, however, were the two magnificent, globby wings of darkmess that shot out of his back. They raised up behind him majestically as he pinned the struggling Sweetlopek to the ground, like a painting in some grand chapel of an angel fighting a demon.

“T…Tom-” stammered the poet.

The ghost looked over at Woodrow. “Stay there,” he commanded- his voice was not only back, but clear and resonant. Woodrow nodded, and in fact crawled around the side of the tree, where he was partially hidden, but could peer out at the scene. His entire body ached, but - resilient creature that he was - he seemed to be intact, with no broken bones.

Despite his ferocity, the Beast was being held down by Phantom’s rotund body, weighty with darkmess. “WHO…ARE…YOU?!” snarled the woodsman as he glowered up at his aggressor.

Phantom gave a manic smile. “What, don’t you know? I’m a damned galactic treasure, and I’m here to save the man who saved me.”

With no patience for Phantom’s grandeur, the Beast snarled and made an effort to throw him off, tumbling over so that he was now on top and pinning Phantom to the bed of leaves and dirt below. But just as quickly, the ghost extended a wing, and used it to gain leverage and push himself back over, so that he was on top once more. “Ha!” he exclaimed.

Then suddenly, the Beast froze. He raised his head up as much as he could, staring, and sniffing at the newcomer.

“IS THAT… MY… SHIRT…”

Phantom’s unmasked eye widened in confusion. “Er-”

And in that moment, Sweetlopek roared, freed one of his arms, and slashed his claws across Phantom’s chest.

Leaves fell from nearby trees as the singer gave a scream of pain, three jagged claw marks having rent the shirt and the ectoplasm underneath, with streams of darkmess slowly leaking out from each gash, down the singer’s chest and torso and belly. The Beast lashed out with his other arm, and ripped the shirt clean off of him, tossing it to the side in his rage.

Phantom looked down at himself only briefly before staring back at Sweetlopek in white-hot fury; then he opened his mouth once more, and blasted out a note that to Woodrow seemed to contain the entire universe: deep and full, divine and demonic, echoing with beautiful terror.

The fragment of breath and song hit the accursed lumberjack, who flew backwards, crashing into one of the woodcarvings that decorated the glade and knocking it over.

Phantom fluttered over to the dazed creature and pinned him down yet again, his eyes ablaze, his hair flowing, and put his hands at the woodcutter's throat under his beard-

“Tom, NO!” shrieked Woodrow. “Stop- he’s my friend-”

Phantom looked back towards Woodrow, who was still hiding behind the tree. “But Tristan- he-”

Taking advantage of the distraction, the Beast rose again, knocked Phantom over, and towered above him. He drew his axe from the strap of darkmess on his back and raised it high in his clawed hands, his mouth full of hungry fangs, the beaver on his head squealing in terror, and-

Yet another giant blur shout out from the nearby woods, this one much more colorful. It jumped straight for the axe, grabbing it in its massive jaws, landed with a thud, and spat out the weapon several feet away. Then quick as a flash it leapt back again, knocked the Beast over, and they both rolled around on the ground for a moment, like fighting wolves.

Phantom looked on in confusion, while Woodrow quickly understood- the new beast was Dryad, in the form she sometimes took to protect the forest, a giant quadruped with a fierce maw and a fiery mane of foliage.

“YOU!!!” cried Sweetlopek, and it was impossible to tell if anger or delight dominated his distorted voice. “FINALLY…”

“I knew it would come to this, Sweetie,” said the other, and there was no mistake that her own voice, while strong and firm, was as sorrowful as dead brown leaves.

During this exchange, Woodrow had crawled from behind the tree, and reached Phantom, who was sitting there gasping and clutching at his chest.

As Dryad kept down the man she loved, so warped in both spirit and form, she turned her fierce head to the others. “Phantom!” she yelled. “Get Woody away from here. Far away.”

The ghost nodded. “But Dryad! Sweetlopek!” cried out the warden in dismay. “What will happen to-”

Just then, the Beast freed himself from the forest guardian’s grasp, and lunged again at the poet- who, for all his abnormal size, was so small and fragile compared to everyone else here; by far the easiest target. Before he could be harmed, however, Phantom quickly snatched him to his leaking chest, and flew upwards, out of the glade, and high over the forest.

As he flew, Woodrow looked back down as the two lovers recommenced their fighting, until the trees hid them from view. And he burst into agonized sobs, burying his face into Phantom’s neck. No matter who won, there was nothing but sorrow and pain and agony in whatever future he, and this planet, had left.

“...He was your friend, my dear?” said Phantom, as he kept flying at top speed, clutching Woodrow to his chest.

The warden did not answer, so powerful was his grief. Phantom did not press further, and after a few minutes, he found a small clearing. He gently drifted down to it, and set himself upon the grass. He opened his arms, and Woodrow attempted to peel himself off - only to find that his coat had become hopelessly stuck to the darkmess that leaked from his beloved’s wound. Without words, and with sobs that were gradually subsiding, he took off his coat, and then wrapped and stretched and tied the long sleeves around Phantom’s naked chest and back - it served as a bandage to stop the gushing.

Now Woodrow nestled back into Phantom’s arms, as the two of them sat there holding each other in silence, recovering from their mutual shock.

After a moment, Woodrow spoke up. “Thank you, Tom. Thank you for saving me. You look beautiful, now. But… what did you mean, I had saved you? Clearly, I haven’t. You are still afflicted, you still bear the poison of Cursa…”

The ghost smiled down at him, and raised the poet's chin so that they met each other’s eyes. “Tristan Woodrow,” he said, “When you found me, days ago, in this forest… I was soon to die. I know I would have, perhaps that very day. I am still dying, but now my last thoughts shall be happiness and peace, not confusion and regret and sorrow. My love, I have lived a new lifetime with you in these past few days.”

“But Tom,” said the other, gripping a handful of his darling’s hair in anguish, “You can’t die!! We didn’t- we didn’t ACTUALLY live a lifetime together- there’s so much we have to do- the walks alongside the river, in the cool breeze of our long autumn… our visit to the moon… your singing competitions with the birds… you promised…”

Phantom smiled, and a single line of darkmess began to emerge from behind his mask, like a tear. “You are a poet, mon cheri, as am I. Ask yourself: are not words real? We spoke it, and we imagined it, and so it happened, in every way that matters. When we talked about such things, I felt as if I was there. That is the best that either of us could hope for, in these days. On a stage, the play is reality. And that cabin was our stage.”

Woodrow had no tears left, but instead gazed up at the other defiantly. “But what about me?!” he demanded. “You can’t leave me. You may die in peace and contentment, but you leave me here- with what?”

Phantom stroked his companion’s cheek. “Lo siento, my love. What am I to do? I can’t help it. I shall leave you with everything you had before, and then some-”

“I have nothing!” cried the warden, his voice cracking. He stood up and spread his naked arms to the forest. “Look around us. My planet is dying too, and I cannot stop it. The creature you fought - he was a man once, a rabbid, my best friend, and Dryad’s beloved. I could not save him, nor could she. Now who knows what will happen between them - if Dryad dies, the forest will be without hope, and if Sweetlopek dies- why, both me and Dryad will be without hope and the forest will be devastated regardless. I could not save him, I could not save you, I could not save Palette Prime, so tell me, WHAT DO I HAVE?!”

Phantom’s blue eye was wide and sorrowful with empathy, as he rose himself up to hold his beloved, who was shaking with anger and grief.

“Tristan,” he said, “I am sure you have done your best. Nothing but your best. There are some battles that cannot be won, but… we must keep fighting.”

“Then YOU keep fighting!” choked the other. “Don’t you give up, don’t die, don’t- don’t leave me, Tom, please, I- I love you, I need you, my soulmate… I will be nothing without you, nothing… just dirt and mud and crumbled leaves-”

Phantom picked up the poet’s whole body into a bridal carry, and sat back down with the trembling bundle of emotion. “Dear Tristan, portafortuna,” he said in a singsong. “How lucky we are! How kind of the universe, to show me my soulmate before I died, even if so briefly…”

“It isn’t lucky at all!!” cried the other, grasping madly at the ghost’s arm. “It’s-it’s perfectly unlucky, as befits my destiny! My whole life! Don’t you see?! To come to know you, the person whose soul fits with mine like a lock and key, only to have him ripped away so cruelly, so quickly- it’s the worst thing the Fates have ever done to me.”

“Sweet poet, my darling,” sang the other. “Perhaps in another world we are together, in brighter days, without Cursa...”

“But I don’t live in that world, Tom… and neither do you…”

“For a moment, we can,” said Phantom.

And he began to sing, softly. A lullaby in some language Woodrow did not know. The poet let himself be held and sang to- finally, the voice he had yearned so desperately to hear was his to enjoy, all his, accompanied by the crickets and the rustle of leaves in the gathering night. How could he do anything but remain silent, and try to enjoy every note to the fullest? His ears perked up and tilted towards his darling’s face, and he nestled into his chest, kissing him tenderly on the neck and down his chest above his wound. Between verses, Phantom too bent over to plant a kiss on his beloved’s cheek or forehead.

And so it lasted, through several verses, until Phantom gradually seemed to struggle with keeping himself upward- suddenly his entire body jolted, as if trying to keep himself awake from a doze.

“Tom- Tom, are you-”

Phantom said nothing, and trickles of darkmess began to run from his mouth- then he suddenly collapsed backwards, with Woodrow on top of him.

“TOM!!”

The singer blinked, and shook his head, and looked up at Woodrow.

“Tristan-” he said quietly, “It’s time. Now’s the time. You must take my mask off.”

“But, but why- that may kill you, indeed- I cannot hurt you like that, not again…”

“I am dying regardless. Please, Tristan. You must take it off… I do not wish to die with her mark upon me. I wish to die with my own face.”

The poet swallowed back his tears. “Tom, my... my dearest, my darling love… I… there is no face back there. I’m so sorry. Your face, it’s been eaten away behind that mask… I should have told you, but-”

“I know,” said the other, with a weak wave of his paw. “I… guessed as much. But I do not care. Half of a face is still better than a mask. Just, please, take it off of me…”

Woodrow nodded, and positioned himself on top of Phantom as before. Digging his paws under the edge of the mask again, the warden pulled. He pulled, and pulled, giving no heed to the screams that resounded throughout the woods, for he knew what must be done- he tried to ignore all his senses, and his own pain and sorrow, and then before he knew it, the last strands of darkmess had snapped, and the mask was severed. He tossed it away towards the trees.

As before, the thick and oily sludge bubbled up out of the hole in Phantom’s head, with nothing to stop it.

“Thank you, my love-” murmured Phantom, looking up at the face above him, as the substance began to spread over his own face like lava from an erupting volcano. “I will die free. You have-”

Then Woodrow pressed his lips down onto Phantom’s.

“Mm-Trstn-” moaned the ghost in protest from behind their locked mouths, and with all his strength, forced the poet up. “You can’t- you must leave me now- this will kill you, you’ll-”

“I am already dead,” said the poet, and met his lips again. This time the ghost relented, and they kissed each other hungrily, passionately, like starving men who were eating for the first time in ages. Their hands were on each other’s faces, bodies, and hair, until they were both quite covered in darkmess, and Woodrow felt a tingling and burning on his flesh, and a rancid nauseating taste as plenty got into his mouth, but none of this mattered, none of it stopped him-

Then suddenly Phantom gave a sharp cry of pain, and his passion stopped short. Woodrow stopped as well. “Tom, what’s-”

The ghost cried out again, his half-face distorted in agony, and he pointed down towards his belly. Woodrow looked backwards, and then slid off of his lover to the side. Phantom’s body, with the loss of so much of its fluids, had become somewhat deflated - and now, for the very first time since their meeting, Woodrow could see that within Phantom’s stomach were two masses, two clumps of darkmess that stood out solidly amongst the remaining liquid. One was smaller, and had the distinctive shape of the gramophone - which indeed seemed likely to have been the source of the trouble this whole time, as even now, a small river of fresh sludge was pouring from its horn. And the other was some kind of rounder mass, indistinguishable, and very large…

Phantom continued to moan, and Woodrow lifted his head onto his own lap, in helpless fear, not knowing how to ease his pain. “Tom, how can I-”

And then, with a quiet pop, Phantom’s belly burst, like a water balloon, spilling its contents out over the forest floor. Out poured the darkmess, and the gramophone, which began to shed its coating of goop, and the other lump, which - as excess darkmess dripped from it, began to seem… almost… fuzzy…

Woodrow gasped in horror, feeling far more nauseous at this sight than at the darkmess he had swallowed. His mind was still reeling from Phantom bursting, when, from the rounded clump of darkmess, sprang up two tiny insectoid wings. They were bent and corroded, but still recognizable… just as the whole form itself, despite being largely stained black, and eaten away, was becoming more recognizable… ears, paws, a face...

“Holy stars. Mother of Rosalina,” swore Woodrow in terror. “Oh stars. Oh stars-”

Phantom groaned, and looked down weakly at the mess before him. “Oh, Tristan…” he moaned. “I… I remember now, I-”

The poet’s hands were over his mouth, trying not to throw up, and the last of his tears were streaming from his eyes. He could not look Phantom in the face.

“I could not remember until this moment," Phantom began, fighting hard for each word, "but… before I came here… I went. To Terra Flora. Looking for a cure… when I first became able to fight Cursa off, it’s... the first place I tried, because… I thought… Bea, I thought she-” he coughed up a burst of darkmess - “I thought she could help. And- and she did. She tried, despite everything I had done to her. She took pity on me- but… but Cursa overpowered me again, and- and we overpowered her… and I, we… we absorbed her…”

Woodrow looked down at Phantom again, his eyes wild and red with tears, then glanced up at the ruined and darkmess-riddled body that had once been Bea, then back down at Phantom. “She- she’s been here the whole time- she’s been INSIDE YOU-”

“I did not know,” said Phantom, and every broken word was agony. “And yet, somehow- I could still sense, I- I knew that I was a danger to you- I suppose I remembered, vaguely… that something had happened…”

“And then you came here next, to get me?!” said Woodrow, his voice thin and jumpy with horror and revulsion. “Working your way down the warden line? Well, you succeeded!”

“Perhaps Cursa brought me here for that reason, I do not know. I have… no memory… of how I came here. Even still. But it was I who fell in love, Tristan. It’s only ever been me. Since the moment I awoke… in that cabin… with you by my side. Since the moment… I heard you humming in my dreams. It’s only ever…been me… it’s only ever been… you…”

He reached up to touch Woodrow’s face, and the warden let himself be caressed; then he kissed Tom’s paw. “I believe you, Tom,” he said, crying softly. “I’m sorry, it’s just- it’s all so horrible-”

“I know,” said Phantom. “And that is why I have to die. There is no happy ending for me.”

“Take me with you,” said Woodrow softly. He took off his glasses, and smiled down at Phantom with his gentle green eyes, red around their rims from crying, his thundering raincloud forming a halo. “Let us go together into the night. There is nothing left for me in this world.”

“No, Tristan, mon cœur, ma vie… You deserve far better. I cannot rest in peace, knowing I had killed two people, two that I had loved… leave me, and run far away…”

“You didn’t kill me,” said the warden. “Let’s say my own poems did.”

He caressed the cheek of his lover, who now only had half a face, and half a body, and had already spilled out darkmess all over the ground and onto Woodrow, and said,

“I’ve been working on something for you. It’s deeply ironic now, but… listen.

You came to me a stranger In a time much stranger yet, And you carried me from danger, Aye, the danger of regret.

Your soul was made of fire, Kept me warm throughout the night, Lit my path throughout the mire, Taught me how to seek the light.

You were made so wondrous, That you sing without a word, Your voice is loud and thund’rous Even when you are not heard.

Your presence is itself a song And tho' your mouth be sealed, Your melody has greeted me And left me whole and healed.

Indeed one day you shall break free, The darkness cannot claim you, And your defiant melody Shall break the bonds that tame you.

Oh, my darling! What a joy it's been To know you as I do, The darkness shan't destroy, my friend, The light that lives in you.”

As Woodrow spoke, caressing Phantom’s hair, Jinx had started to rain upon them both. It washed away the darkmess from their faces for a time, and delayed the inevitable. But ultimately it was no use, this time. The darkmess was too strong, and too thick, and too plentiful. As the poem went on, they grew ever more covered in it. It dripped out of Phantom’s face, and by the final verse, his visage was completely hidden- save for his eye that peered out, and the vague form of a smile that could be seen as Woodrow recited his work. And so too were the warden’s paws, and his lap and his knees and legs, overtaken by the ever-growing puddle.

There wasn’t much left in Phantom’s deflated body, but from a few feet away, the gramophone had continued to spill out a new surge as well. It poured like a sluggish waterfall, forming a puddle that connected the lifeless body of Bea to the two lovers nearby, all united by the same ominous pool.

Woodrow looked down at his beloved and finished his poem, heedless of the darkmess that had begun to encase his legs from above and below.

“It was beautiful, my dear,” Phantom said, his voice barely audible and distorted as the darkmess ate away at what was left of his face. “I’m glad I got to hear it.”

“And I’m glad I got to say it,” said the poet. With something of a struggle, he pulled himself free of the puddle amassing around him- just enough to lay his body down next to Phantom, on the ground, intimately connected in that moment to both the planet and the person he loved above all things. He pulled what remained of Phantom towards him, and fought through the sludge to kiss his lips. The darkmess surged into his mouth, down his throat, and he felt searing pain from within and without.

But the pain, to him, was a divine blessing. He was dissolving, he knew, into the same undistinguished mass that Phantom and Bea would become. A venn diagram of poetry and song with Phantom at its center. It’s better like this.

Phantom’s wings, which had laid still and become part of the puddle, fluttered again, just enough to wrap around Woodrow and pull him ever closer into the dark embrace.

The last words uttered in the glade that night, softly under the bubbling and roiling sound of the terrible sludge at work, were "I love you," and "I love you too. Forever."

And so it was that the poetry went silent, and Woodrow’s last work was never heard by another soul - no one, except a certain cloud which, having rained itself out in one last act of grief, allowed itself- for the first time in decades- to fully dissipate, back into the air of the planet from which it had been formed.

THE END

[So! Here are my thanks-

Dryad's beast form comes from @minnesotamedic186 !

The general direction of the ending, and Bea being involved, comes from @hostess-of-horror's distressing concept for Phantom in Sparks of Despair. I've been working towards a conclusion that honors her vision this whole time, so here we are!

Thanks to YOU for reading this, even though it might have broken your heart as it did mine. The terror of this story, the monster at the end of this book, lived in the back of my mind for over a year, and as hard as it was to finally write down, now I can finally put it to rest.]

#mario plus rabbids #mario + rabbids #phandrow #sparks of despair #ts woodrow #woodrow #the phantom of the bwahpera

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alarawriting · 2 months

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I Suddenly Found Myself In Class With Amnesia, but I'm the Teacher?!

Experimenting with trying to write in "light novel" style despite being an American who writes in English.

****

I couldn’t tell you what the last thing I remembered was, because I couldn’t tell what order any of them had happened in. Was the last thing I remembered sitting in the back of the English classroom, gossiping with Suzy and Chantel, quietly enough that our half-deaf and eighty percent dead old English teacher couldn’t hear us? What about that moment in science lab where I had a beaker and I was pouring liquid into a retort and then there was a bright light and a boom? Or could the last thing I remembered be the moment where I was crossing the street in front of the high school, and I had my head turned because I was talking to my friend Rob?

I’m a big fan of portal fantasy. English, American, Japanese, it’s all great. Someone walks through a closet and finds themselves in another world. Or they get hit by a car and they wake up in a strange place full of magic. Or they die and get reincarnated as a cute little baby. Usually in a strange place full of magic. Most of these stories involve strange places full of magic.

That might have been fun, if that had been what happened. But no. I suddenly found myself standing in front of a room full of high school students that were filing in the door and finding seats.

Was I giving a presentation? I looked around, but there was no teacher. And then I looked down at how I was dressed – a plain blue blouse with a little pleating, and a very pleated, dark blue skirt, with sensible flats like my mom might wear, and pantyhose, like I would ever wear pantyhose. And then I looked up again, at the students, who were looking at me, and I realized that while they were mostly wearing T-shirts and jeans, the colors and styles were all wrong. Lots of neon stripes, and strategic cuts, and all the sneakers were either black with fluorescent stripes of some kind, or bright colors. And several of the boys were wearing pink. And none of the hairstyles looked like anything me or my friends would be caught dead in.

I reached behind my head and found that my hair was in a bun. In the last things I could remember, my hair was in a pixie cut. Pixie cuts cannot be made into buns. Somehow time had passed that I couldn’t remember. A lot of time.

My hands looked normal. No rings. But my fingernails weren’t chewed. There wasn’t any nail polish on them, but they were neat and clean and didn’t look like fingernails I might have.

The students weren’t looking at me the way students look at other students who are up at the board to do a presentation; they were looking at me sullenly, or expectantly.

I realized then to my horror that I was the teacher here.

If I was the teacher, I absolutely could not have a panic attack, even though I felt like I was about to. I also couldn’t suddenly run off to the bathroom – in all my years of school I have never seen a teacher do that at the start of a class. Teachers always present themselves as perfectly in control, without basic human needs, or else the class senses weakness and eats them alive.

This was exactly the kind of situation you might think to yourself, I’m having a bad dream. But my feet hurt. The shoes were annoying me. I have never noticed how my shoes feel, in a dream. And I was wearing an underwire bra, which was digging into my skin under my breasts. This was not a dream; I don’t dream up those kinds of details.

So. Somehow I was the teacher. I had no idea what I was teaching. I had never wanted to be a teacher – I’d planned to be a marine biologist. A quick eyeball around the class didn’t give me any hints; it was a very, very generic classroom. I did have a whiteboard with markers instead of a chalkboard, and the students didn’t have notebooks in front of them; most of them had something that looked like a laptop monitor, except smaller and without a keyboard, like a really big cell phone. A few had pens, except they were probably styluses for writing on the laptop monitor things, somehow, because without paper I couldn’t imagine how they could use those as pens.

No one was taking out a textbook, either. Seriously, how was I supposed to even guess what I was supposed to teach?

I could run off, I thought. This wasn’t actually my real life. I wasn’t a teacher. I was a high school student. This had to be some kind of Freaky Friday craziness where I’d swapped places with a teacher, somehow.

But… that was a ridiculous idea. Whereas the idea that somehow, something had happened to my brain and I’d suddenly lost years of memory and started thinking I was still a high school student when in fact I was a grown adult teacher… was possible. Implausible, and I didn’t like the idea at all, but it was more likely to be true. And if it was true, that meant this was my real life. This was my real job. And I’d be fired if I admitted I’d suddenly had some kind of brain damage that wiped out my memories of however many years it had been since I was a high school student. Somehow I had to fake my way through this, at least long enough to figure out what was going on.

The bell had rung a minute ago. The students were, mostly, pretty quiet, looking at me expectantly. I’m sure my lack of responsiveness was starting to seem weird.

I had to do something quick.

“We’re going to do something different today, students,” I said, wondering, as I said it, if I or the person whose life I’d stolen said things like “students” to address the class. “Let’s pretend I have total amnesia. I walked into this classroom, and wow! I don’t know my name and I’ve never been here before. Write me a short essay, in your own words, about what we’ve been learning for the past couple of weeks. Fill me in! Pretend I don’t know anything!”

#im the teacher #english language light novel?#wip

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mediamixs · 2 days

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Wednesday 2: everything you need to know

The upcoming TV show Wednesday season 2 is highly anticipated by fans, with production starting in May 2024 and an expected release date in early 2025. The show, a gothic fantasy drama created by Tim Burton, is a Netflix series that follows the Addams family's eldest daughter, Wednesday Addams, played by Jenna Ortega. The cast for season 2 includes Jenna Ortega as Wednesday Addams, Catherine Zeta-Jones as Morticia Addams, Luis Guzmán as Gomez Addams, and other talented actors like Billie Piper, Steve Buscemi, and Thandiwe Newton. The show's creators, Miles Millar and Alfred Gough, have expressed their excitement for the future of the series, hinting at a possible expansion of the Addams Family universe with more family members and spin-off shows. Season 2 is expected to delve deeper into horror elements, offering a darker and more action-packed storyline, with each episode potentially feeling like a standalone movie. Jenna Ortega has teased that the upcoming season will be visually striking and memorable, promising a thrilling and captivating viewing experience for fans. Overall, Wednesday season 2 promises to continue the dark and intriguing journey of Wednesday Addams and her family, exploring new depths of horror and storytelling.

The plot of Wednesday 2 picks up in the aftermath of the season 1 finale, where Wednesday Addams faces new challenges and mysteries. After solving the murders orchestrated by a Hyde monster controlled by Ms. Thornhill, Wednesday is confronted with a mysterious stalker sending threatening messages and photos, hinting at more trouble to come in season 2. The season is expected to delve deeper into the Addams Family Mansion, providing more insight into Morticia's role and wardrobe, while also exploring the supernatural world further with werewolves, vampires, and potentially new monsters for Wednesday to confront. Additionally, the show is set to offer more standalone episodes, each with visually striking and memorable scenes, promising a unique and captivating viewing experience for fans. As production for season 2 began in early May 2024, fans can anticipate a darker, more action-packed storyline with twists and revelations about the Addams Family and Wednesday's personal journey.

In Wednesday 2, it's expected that Tyler, the Hyde monster manipulated by Ms. Thornhill in season 1, will seek revenge against Wednesday Addams. The season 1 finale revealed that Tyler can still transform into the Hyde, hinting at his return in season 2 to confront Wednesday. However, the nature of Tyler's revenge plot is still unclear. Some theories suggest he may have a change of heart or that there's more to his character and the Hyde species than initially thought. The show could explore a more complex storyline for Tyler, rather than portraying him as a purely evil villain. Another potential revenge plot in season 2 involves Bianca's mother, who tried to get her to return to the cult Morning Sun in season 1. This storyline was left unresolved and could be revisited, with the cult potentially seeking revenge against Wednesday or Nevermore Academy. Additionally, Sheriff Galpin, who was demoted to a recurring role in season 2, may harbor resentment towards Wednesday for exposing Tyler's crimes. He could pursue his own revenge plot against her, believing she is as threatening as her family. Overall, while a revenge plot involving Tyler is likely, the specifics of how it will unfold and who else may seek retribution against Wednesday remain to be seen in the upcoming season.

#horror #tv shows #horror tv #netflix #wednesday #jenna ortega #catherine zeta jones

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glyphreader · 6 months

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Gwyllion Hedge-Mage (Eventide No. 89, Illus. Todd Lockwood)

Gwyllions are another type of creature that suddenly appears on Shadowmoor. Are they Kithkin? No. Elves? Nope. Goblins? No. They're hags. No idea where they came from ... they're just here now.

There are two varieties of hags on Shadowmoor: The Gwyllion, who are aligned with white and black mana (Gwyllion Hedge-Mage, Harvest Gwyllion, Nip Gwyllion, also shown on Disturbing Plot), and the more monstrous, green-and-black-aligned versions that are just called hags, no further specification (Stalker Hag, Hag Hedge-Mage, Desecrator Hag).

Gwyllion and Hags (like many Shadowmoor creatures) originally come from British folklore, where they are female fairies "of frightful aspect." Gwyllion is apparently the plural form of the word (the singular being Gwyll), but in Magic, it's also used to refer to individual specimens.

Shadowmoor Gwyllion, while definitely not friendly or pleasant to be around, seem like the sophisticated variety of witch figure on the plane. I could still see tjhem showing up in a dark fantasy film aimed at a somewhat young audience. The green-black hags, on the other hand, are the man-eating variety of witch that firmly belongs in a horror or slasher movie.

In this card illustration by Todd Lockwood, the Gwyllion almost feels like a autumn or winter spirit, with her big mane of hair resembling withered branches. Judging by the crude puppet head she is clutching, she seems to specialize in voodoo-like magic.

Just like Noggle Hedge-Mage, the composition of the piece makes it feel like you are in direct confrontation with this creature. She too has this kind of stare that hints at some form of intelligence - but she's not "human" enough for you to be able to read her intentions. Make one wrong move, and she might drive her nail into the puppet's head, causing you to succumb to an agonizing headache.

How would an encounter with this Gwyllion play out? What role do they play in Lorwyn/Shadowmoor? How do they interact with the other creatures on the plane? These are the kinds of things I'd love to see explored in official MtG fiction (or fanfiction).

#mtg #vorthos #magic the gathering #eventide #shadowmoor

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ashes-writing · 2 years

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I know you have thots on Billy Loomis and I would like to know what they are (headcanon request; you can go spicy if you like 🔥) 😜

AHHH OMG I LOVE YOU FOR THIS THANK YOU SO SO SO MUCH. But like also.. I wanna warn you now, this one got kind of.. well.. dark. Spicy, yes.. But also, dark. So, please feel free to skip out if anything I mention in the warnings is a hard no.

Again, thank you! Thank you from the bottom of my black little heart! I actually had fun playing around with this, despite the fact that it does get a little darker than most of the things I've written. Again.. If after reading the warning section you feel like this isn't for you, please don't feel like you're obligated to read.

This is not meant for minors, so minors, don't you fucking dare. Also if you're not into somnophilia, mentions of blood (period sex / blood kink), corruption kink / deflowering kink, vague hints of obsessive / possessive tendencies, pain kink, body fluids, biting / marking, voyeurism, mentions of possessiveness that might lend to m*rder choking / asphyxiation and spit you are not going to wanna read any further.

Tag List; Uh.. see, what happened was that there's nobody on my tag list for horror movies and stuff, and given the nature of what I laid out here, I uh.. Kinda felt like it was safer not to tag anybody without asking. But.. If you'd like to be on my tag list, please, by all means... Click the link below.

Other Stuff; tag list doc || pinned - my rules / fandoms and some, not all of the characters i write for || requests ; open - headcanons only please and thanks.

I do not consent to my work being reposted/rewritten and posted elsewhere.

✯ Bisexual af. Billy Loomis is bisexual af. I strongly believe that Billy and Stu had a little something going on behind the scenes. Or that if they didn’t, he at very least had entertained the idea and maybe even certain fantasies about his best friend Stu. He’s also still kind of dealing with / struggling with the fact that he is attracted to men and women, so yeah… Just putting that out there. This is something I've come to firmly believe about him. He's bisexual but he isn't quite comfortable knowing so. There are just certain things he does, there's a certain way he and Stu act together in some scenes of the movie that in the back of my mind always kind of made me think... Hmmm. There has to be more between these two idiots.

✯ Corruption / deflowering kink. I say this because the proof is right there in the movie with the way he lords it over Sydney that they either did or nearly hooked up. I feel like if he knew you were offering up your virginity it would absolutely make him go feral. The question is, after reading the rest of this little list… Do you really want him to? Because it’s… a little bit of a wild ride.

✯ Relentless with the teasing. R E L E N T L E S S. Also doesn’t care where you happen to be when it’s started bc he knows it’ll be finished. Whether it’s in a private corner of wherever you happen to be at the moment the mood strikes, the backseat of his car / your car, your room when he sneaks in at night.

✯ Somnophilia. If he knew you were down for letting him ‘use you’ while you’re sleeping and he’s laying there having gotten himself all good and worked up watching you toss and turn or the little sounds you make, oh my god. Ugh.. He’d be all over doing it in a heartbeat.

✯ His jealous streak, oh my god. Listen, this man is absolutely possessive / territorial af. We won’t talk about what he’ll do to the other person he feels is competition -another story for another day bc unaliving / murder and that’s not what you asked for and I’m trying to keep this lighter? Anyway..- Let me just say this. When he gets you somewhere private, he’s going to show you exactly who you belong to. You will be covered in handprints, bites, hickies, you name it. And he’ll keep going until your legs are shaking and you can’t form a coherent thought. The more you beg him to stop and let you recover the more he’ll insist you have ‘one more’ in you and persuade you to keep going for him. The jealous streak takes over and he’s only worried about one thing… How many times you scream for him and not the other person - who he’s either already dealt with privately in a gruesome way or will deal with privately and in a gruesome way - .. So.. Possessive as fuck.

✯ The possessive streak extends to protecting the shit out of you too. If he were to catch someone slipping something into your drink (I knowwww this isn’t dirty and you wanted my thots but I can’t resist, okay? I cannnnt.) he would not wait to address it privately, he’d start a fucking brawl right then and there that would inevitably end with Billy making them drink the spiked substance.

✯ Do.Not.Play. with this man. His anger is scary as hell and knows no bounds. I feel like this needs to be said despite the nature of the ask. Don’t pursue him because you think you want a bad boy because if you fuck around, you will find out. If he catches feelings, he gets way attached. And he’ll stop at nothing to keep you to himself. It’s a bit on the obsessive side and honestly, you should be worried. So please, for the love of God and all that’s holy just don’t play with him if you’re not prepared for the intensity he brings to the table.

✯ Okay, I’m done with the maternal warnings I feel I need to give you precious babes about this man, let’s get back to it… Billy Loomis loves pain. He loves to give/dish it out BUT… he loves to receive it most of all. So if you were to say… Take over… Bite him, slap him in the heat of the moment, pull his hair really hard, scratch hard enough to almost draw blood to the surface of his skin, holy shit. He’ll be putty in your hands.

✯ If he’s caught in the act he’s not stopping because he gets off on being watched. And if he finds out you’re into it too? Oh my goddddd.

✯ He is very charming. Very persuasive. The kind of guy who will smoothly talk you out of your clothes before you even realize that he’s done it. He’ll get you agreeing to God only knows what before you realize it, oh my god.

✯ Despite all of the above he would never ever take advantage of you against your will. He’ll only do exactly what he knows you want / can handle. It’s hard to restrain himself sometimes but he manages. Barely, but I digress. Consent is huge for him, as is trust. (For example, the way he reacted when Sydney rightfully suspected him of the murders, ya know.. He walked away angry and hurt). So.. if you guys do get up to any one of his numerous kinks, he will tell you to come up with a stop word and if you say it, everything comes to a grinding halt.

✯ He teeters on the fine line of being a switch. He’s dominant for the most part but he does possess sub tendencies on occasion. No mistakes made, he’s primarily dominant but, but.. It’s mostly out of habit/expectation and a slight huge discomfort at not being in control / handling the side of himself that wants to take it like a good little boy. SO… if you really want him to be putty in your hands, take control once in a while.

✯ Thinks it’s sexy to spit in his partner’s mouth. Will only do it if you’re into it or it’s something you want.

✯ Has a secret stash of Polaroids in his room of you/his partner of choice in various states of orgasmic bliss, all fucked out and practically drooling and they’re like trophies to him. Nobody is allowed to see/touch them but him and he uses them often to ahem… Take care of things on his own when the need arises.

✯ For all the ladies out there - vagina owners or otherwise.. Period sex. That is all. The guy isn’t afraid of a little blood, I mean… C’mon.

✯ Speaking of blood. He has a bit of a blood kink.

✯ Loves the idea of erotic asphyxiation. Loves the sensation of cumming while something’s on his throat and cutting his breath even shorter.

✯ Speaking of choking… The space between his thumb and index finger should bear the tattoo “Your throat here” because the guy fucking loves to choke in the heat of the moment. But again, only if you’re into it.

✯ Surprisingly, he’s very very good at aftercare. Very gentle, especially if this isn’t just a one time thing between you two. Will hold you, help you get dressed / take shower with you, etc.

✯ Very into the way certain body fluids look splashed across certain parts of your body. Absolutely fucking loves it. Also likes the way you/his partners moan when he pushes his fingers into their mouth after he’s done using them on you/his partners. Probably has a photo or two of this in his little trophy box.

✯ Dirty talk, oh my god. And the man is absolutely the filthiest at it.

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thebibliophile-ambs · 10 months

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Haunting Adeline by H.D. Carlton

I just finished this book a few days ago and thought I’d share my opinions on it.

This book made me realize that I must be an extremely fucked up individual or at the very least a desensitized one.

Compared to everyone else I know who read it, they though it was very dark and disturbing, whereas I was expecting it to be way worse based on the warnings both from the author and other readers. There was really only one scene (with the exception of the child trafficking scenes) that I thought was truly fucked up and that was the gun scene. Ifkyk.

I was basically rooting for Zade since damn near the beginning of the book. Idk, I just love me some toxic men I guess. Or maybe I secretly have a stalker fantasy. Shh 🤫 About as stupid as Adeline thought she was.

After about the 2nd or 3rd sex scene I was over them. I just wanted it get back to Zade chopping people up or some shit. I was more invested in their individual stories than their scenes together until all of it came together.

I’m a huge horror/slasher fan so I would’ve like more gory details in Zade’s work.

I strongly relate to Adeline in the aspect of being scared. I’m horror movie enthusiast, haunting houses attractions, actual haunted houses, give me all the spooks. I will not go as far as to say that I get off on it though.

It took me halfway through the book to picture Zade as he was described. Before I was picturing him as a more matured version of Ken Kaneki from Tokyo Ghoul. Which doesn’t make sense to me now so I don’t know why I pictured him.

I loved that there were multiple components to the story and wasn’t focused solely on the interactions between Addie and Zade. Like they had their own shit going on, you know. The Gigi mystery and the Z organization.

I love love love loved how all the storylines and everything is entwined.

It ends with the biggest cliff hanger, which I would’ve absolutely loathed if I wasn’t able to read the 2nd book immediately on kindle unlimited. And let me tell you this, the leader of The Society? Wasn’t expecting that one. It was like a knife in the gut.

Honestly, it was a good book. Definitely need to read it again though and see if there were any hints that I missed about the leader of the society. And to read it with another perspective anyways.

I have started “Hunting Adeline” and it definitely is what I would consider to be dark and disturbing. After that I’ll be reading “Satan’s Affair” which is a prequel about Sibby. So stay tuned for those.

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lightning24680 · 5 months

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Childe x depressed gn!reader

Hi guys, another WIP of mine that I was struck by motivation to create. I really need to work on my already started pieces of writing but I can’t so here I am with random fics. Hope you enjoy! Also Happy New Years! Lightning24680~

Everything starts with an idea, an emotion. He was your emotion. He was like the ocean rough and cold a never ending deep of mystery and darkness, and yet he was calm too, he could be comforting like the small laps of the water at your heels as you walk across the beach. You never quite understood how you and him clicked. You were unextraordinary and you quite honestly felt as if you contributed nothing to this earth constantly wondering why you bothered. He was the opposite and yet the same. He was always in the rush of battle, a never ending wave of determination and strength, but his dull blue eyes mirrored the self loathing of your own.

When you two first met it wasn’t true love or anything special, hell it wasn’t even unique, but it was still a moment that was yours.

You were a Fontaine citizen, you loved your books and writing more than you’d ever cared for the drama of a trial, and still you were dragged to his. Seeking inspiration and maybe just a tad bit of real excitement instead of the fantasies created in your mind you took a seat in the plush red seats of the Opera Epiclese. At first nothing struck you as interesting it was merely another debate.

And then the murmurs started and your gaze was drawn up to the shock in the Chief Justice’s eyes as he read aloud a sentence that should have been impossible…guilty. Your gaze was immediately taken to him, with his vibrant ginger hair and the expression of an impatient man on his face. Then the flash of purple and the crimson of his mask, his light grey’s and browns traded for pitch black and, stunning purple with the eye catching blood red.

In that moment intrigue spiked in your heart, motivation in your mind, something you thought had been extinguished long ago rising in your brain. You shifted in your seat practically hanging off the edge, as everyone else watched in horror as the Garde Meks were taken down with the electro currents he’d thrown so carelessly yet precisely, you watched with interest.

And when he was taken down and away defeated you watched in awe at the small and tired grin on his lips, he wants more you realized, and so did you.

You were up and on your feet lightly shoving through the crowds and following the guards before you even realized what you were doing, writers instinct, which you’d long supposed to have left you taking over once again. As you finally caught up with the Garde’s you could only stare as they propped him, the fascination of your interest on a chair before walking a few feet away assuming him harmless, you knew he wasn’t.

As you walked towards him curiosity in your eyes and courage in your steps you noticed how he tensed up as if he sensed your footsteps no matter how quiet. His gaze darted up to yours his dull blue eyes making your breath catch in your throat, untold horrors lied behind those eyes you knew. And then his voice, sounding so very dangerously guarded this close, asked those 3 damning words.

Who are you?

I’m Y/n and you are Tartaglia, you had stated calmly a hint of excitement in your voice, he sensed it of course.

It’s Childe, he replied smoothly his tired body poising itself in a seemingly open way, you could see his walls though. He was a good actor, someone who’d learned to put on the masks of a thousand characters never appreciating his own.

Maybe neither are you if we’re being honest you had replied without thinking. His gaze studied you carefully like he wasn’t sure what mask to put on to appease you, so he brushed you off instead.

Maybe…or maybe your reading into it too deep his low voice tumbled out in a sigh of someone still processing the fact they’re no longer free, but a prisoner of a crime uncommitted, and with an audience of people unable to care.

The Garde’s came back too soon leading him away and with a tilt of your head you noticed the familiar gleam of his vision gone. Curious, you muttered to yourself before turning around to grab your book and head back to your home, the motivation to write had struck you like one of his electro bolts. You hadn’t noticed how dull blue eyes glimpsed back at you a lingering feeling of curiosity showing on his small turn of the lips.

Maybe he’d meet you again, the curious sun peeking through the clouded depths of that murky blue. Yes he would see you again he decided, there was something of an urge to know more, and he wasn’t one to ignore.

Curiosity you decided was the emotion he was. He led to excitement and to something new, and you thought to yourself maybe that’s what you want, and instead of waiting for adventure to find you, you should follow him just to see if the wild call of the ocean is enough to satisfy the sun.

#childe x gn reader #tartagila #ajax genshin impact #fanfic x reader #genshin impact x reader

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anarkissm · 10 months

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In 1996, the alberta province's black population capped at slightly less than 25,000 people. joey’s family was one of four black families that lived in ormond, alberta’s isolated suburban township of 6,000 residents. joey's mother was a prominent heart surgeon, took long commutes to a teaching hospital in calgary. their (white) father was a retired soldier for the Canadian Army Special Force (CASF) — later named the 25th Canadian Infantry Brigade Group. fought in the Battle of Kapyong. joey's parents moved to ormond as a retirement plan before joey was born; when the tourist attractions bolstered the town’s economy, before the recession bled it dry near the end of the 20th century. joey’s childhood was a conscious effort to please their parents, mirroring their father’s interests; mountain climbing, hiking, hunting, fishing (vivid memories of cutting fishing line with a karambit knife their father gave them). none of it interested joey. but it was normal. acceptable. until it wasn't. their parents filed for divorce when joey was thirteen. the separation had felt sudden and shocking to them. there was no custody battle. joey's father didn't bother. he had a wife and a brand new baby within two years after the divorce was finalized. a new, better family. leaving joey’s mother. leaving joey. the only hint that he was ever a part of their lives was the child support he wordlessly paid for. in reality, joey's father was resentful of his wife's successful professional life, while he felt reduced to a homebody enduring the alien feeling of domestic bliss. struggling to return to a “civilian life” after slitting throats in korea’s mountains. eventually, he demanded a divorce. when he found another wife, he admitted to finally being happy. consequently blamed joey's mother for their unhappy marriage, including his lukewarm experience as joey’s father. consequently, joey developed intense abandonment issues, rejection sensitivity and separation trauma because of this major event in their life, which they projected onto their obsession with frank morrison and the legion. frank became incredibly influential to joey, primarily because he was not afraid to challenge joey’s tendency to seek attention, sometimes at their own risk. long, late-night conversations about joey’s life and motivations, spoken over gory video games or bottles of beer. for the first time, joey felt as if someone was actually listening to them. actually trying to understand them. joey felt safe to talk about the things that had hurt them. their sense of identity. their loneliness. their father. frank slung his arm over joey’s shoulder, smelled like snow and menthol cigarettes as he played the role of the devil standing over it. offering his sympathy, his advice: maybe you should slit that fucker’s throat in his sleep? ...and joey processed the spine-crawling realization that they did not mind that idea. with frank enabling every dark thought that passed over their group, it began as an inside joke, became a fantasy in a long list of sick fantasies with the legion; became a plan that joey never had the chance to follow through. interrupted by the store clerk’s murder. by the machinations of the old one: the entity. in the entity’s realm(s), in the mouth of a cosmic horror, joey’s only concern is protecting the legion. their loyalty to frank and the group is ruthless, possessive, and almost unconditional. but after several decades in the fog, the trials, never aging or dying or living, the group inevitably experiences attrition. joey’s loyalty exists only under the condition that frank protects the legion and keeps them together. joey believes in frank, every rant and speech and monologue; joey wants what the legion wants what frank wants. joey believes in their found family. because joey refuses to believe in the alternative.

#JOEY.#MORRISON ，FRANK.#SCRIPT.#Found Family but they are also the horrors #murder cw #joey's cosmetics always seem to be in better condition compared to the others; def has money lol #also the only legion who canonically has a car

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witchcraftandburialdirt · 6 months

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3, 6, 7, 11!

✧ ── 𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐌𝐔𝐍𝐒

3. whose writing has impacted your writing style the most? (you can choose anyone! famous writer or not.)

── I would say that my style and my themes come from two totally different places in the spectrum of my life; I've always been interested in darker stories but my very first introductions into serious literature were J. R. R. Tolkien and Dante Alighieri's The Divine Comedy. I would later begin to consume media from Osamu Dazai, C.S. Lewis, and Victor Hugo - and while I think all of these influenced what I write about I don't think their styles influenced mine very much (besides maybe Tolkien).

Something I've actually been doing recently is allowing myself to slip back into my days of reading Reddit Horror Stories, I especially love listening to them during my workday and I do feel as though they are beginning to curve the direction of my work. A few of my favorites are Jared Roberts' My Dad Finally Told Me What Happened That Day, Dathan Auerbach's Penpal (a classic) - but my ABSOLUTE favorite thus far is Maliagirl1314's My wife has been peeking at me from around corners and behind furniture. This last one is probably one of the most unsettling things I've ever heard and I would be blessed if I could extract some of the same horror this story gave me:

Lynn was peeking from behind the shower curtain, her entire head stretched into the shower, leaving just her body outside. Her long dark hair hung against the curtain, the ends dripping with water. Her mouth hung open in a terrible grin, eyes wide and red, as if she hadn't blinked in a while. I screamed and jumped back against the wall. She didn't move nor did her smile waver. Her makeup ran down her cheeks in two black streaks. She looked giddy and completely deranged. I was fucking terrified.

6. is roleplaying the only writing-based hobby you have, or are there other things you like to write?

── Oh you're really making me talk about this on my roleplaying blog huh - Yes! I actually write quite a bit outside of rp; I use roleplay as a way to keep my skills sharp while I work on a much bigger project. I've been sculpting a high fantasy world for the past 7 years that has a complete plot, setting, societal system etc ; the story follows my usual topics of grief, loss, and what length people are willing to go in order to feel human again ... And how little that humanity means in comparison to cosmic entities that do not feel the same way as you and I. I won't get into too much of it because I will not shut up and this is not the blog for that but here's a little quip:

Everything in between his earliest memories and this last horrid visage flashed within his mind, burning the back of his skull with desperation and misery while two glassy, blank spheres gazed back to him. There was no solace that could be found in the marbled mask of Death his brother wore; no benevolence sparked behind his eyes and his plush lips had fallen agape ... Yoriichi could still smell hints of vanilla and garlic on his tongue. He could not call him a corpse, not when his brother's body still felt warm to the touch, not when his ears still strained to hear any flicker of life echoing in that still and silent ribcage. The blood lining across Yorii's brain boiled in rippling self loathing; his very body began to resent him for such a thought - no. No no. Even now with the hot sin laid before him he knew the blood was not on his hands, he did not pull the lever for the gallows. His brother would never have wanted him to fall into that sort of pit .. Yet, another awaited: this was the man who he had done everything with ... how was he supposed to toss all of that away? The mud was cold beneath him, touched by the first frosts of winter only that evening as all the beauty in the world felt as though it had died - how fitting, he thought, for the world to be plummeted into this dark chasm along with him. Soil clung to his clothing and stained his skin while he sat within the ringing quiet between the two of them, soon enough he couldn't stand to bear and look at his brother's face. It held too much horror - a perfect snapshot of when he realized the end had finally come and that nothing could prepare him for what was to happen next if anything at all. Yorii instead decided to wander back into the flashing memories while his fingers clenched the body beside him so tightly he was sure he would crack bone; and that was when the startling revelation crushed his soul and ripped his heart in two by the sinews. A singular bout of lucidity kindled to clear the fog and his eyes tightly opened to stare at him once more; the small detail he hadn't noticed before felt like an icepick through his skull - His brother had been smiling.

Still a WIP but ! Ya know

7. describe your favorite relationship dynamic. (can be any kind, platonic, romantic, familial, antagonistic, etc.)

── I'm a huge sucker for found family; there's something so comforting within those dynamics and I crave it all of the time - I just really like exploring all of the different ways love can manifest. Antagonistic relationships can get a bit iffy for me, most of my characters fall into the "ok we just wont converse with the person we dislike" box, so not a lot of interaction would happen there unless its forced - but enemies to friends to whatever else is a really big hit for me I don't care how cliche it is.

11. describe your ideal outcome/endgame for the muse you are currently writing. if you are a multimuse blog: do this for your current favorite muse, or the muse of the last reply you posted.

── Doing this one for Robin because Haru's endgame is legit just "be happy and healed" I do not want anymore horror in his life and he deserves none of it for being such a sweetie. Now Robin? Ohoho that little shit - so I have two vastly different ends I'd like for him to end up in and it is somewhat based around different verses as his lives are so wildly juxtaposed in each one. For his main league verse @hemoplagued and I have actually spoken about a whole timeline that takes place in the not-so-distant future where Robin eventually returns to Noxus with Vladimir to help organize a coup alongside the Crimson Court and Black Rose. This results in the execution of Swain and a deconstruction of Noxus' ideals over the next coming centuries (as Vladimir and Robin are both technically immortal). Robin's whole purpose in life in his early life in League verse is to want to help others and solve the humanitarian crisis of his own home; this is an extension of that that feels very bittersweet.

On the other hand I really just want Robin to lose his shit. This is actually something I plan to explore more with you specifically within the Dead by Daylight threads we have going on - as Robin's specific backstory for this verse (shhhh I know I know, I'm writing his doc as we speak for it) really would allow him to fall into vile acts he might not be willing to in his other verses. This is also being explored, granted on a much more subtle level, in his modern verse, and I'm excited to expand more to see where this will lead to since he's not usually the type to bloody his own hands.

#𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐌𝐔𝐍𝐒 #mun speaks #mxlevolence #hehehe #hehehehehe #HEHEH #its fine #i just want robin to go a little wild for once #let him kill someone idk

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