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thesunshineriptide · 2 years

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it's cookie Anon and I feel...terrible. But anyway -that one Loki meme-. Please can I ask for a Scenario with Leona and Rook (I love those assholes), where fem MC was in an abusive relationship before being transported, it was more verbal abuse than anything else. Please make Mc have chubby features. Thanks for your attention and here your daily cookies!🤲🏽🍪

Hi cookie anon, glad to see you back

I have good news and bad news

The good news is that I’ve been in that exact situation and I know how it feels. If that’s something you’ve gone through, I promise you’re not alone, it wasn’t your fault, and I will gladly punch someone in the face for you

The bad news is that this particular request, as requested, is fairly triggering for me.

Don’t worry, though, I won’t leave you without some content, it’ll just be a little different and pretty short. Enjoy “beating the shit out of your bully with your boys” time! :)

Class Fight

Characters: Rook Hunt, Leona Kingscholar, Azul Ashengrotto (briefly), original male character, reader

Cw// brutal violence, blood, fatphobic comments, bullying, swearing, fighting, mild body horror, damaged teeth, biting

You staggered back, wiping your bloody nose with the back of your sleeve while you locked eyes with him.

The ‘he’ in question was a jackass from Diasomnia named Lance Pratt, bully extraordinaire that managed to piss you off beyond reason.

In classical high school asshole bully fashion, Lance was prone to yelling comments like:

“You’d look prettier if you’d lose some weight.”

“You’d make great arm candy if you weren’t so fat.”

“Are you sure you should be eating that?”

And after one particularly exhausting day being Crowley’s errand boy (girl), and wrangling half the fucking student body into behaving, the very last thing you needed was some jackass making fatphobic comments and trying to neg you.

So you punched him.

And he punched back.

It was a truly brutal thing. He had tried to grab you and carry you off, only to be met with two fists aiming for his temples. He threw you down and you retaliated by kicking at his knees. He fell and you pulled at his hair, screaming the whole time. Every blow was met with a one of matching pride and power, and every time he let out a whimper or yelp, it was met with schadenfreude.

It’s hard to imagine the magicless prefect in a screaming, crying, hair pulling, biting, rough fucking fistfight, due to their gentle disposition. It’s even harder to imagine someone making fun of the way they look - who in their right mind would do that? Nearly every boy in school was drooling over those curves, nobody was stupid enough to tell them “you’re ugly” (what dumbass blatantly lies to someone he thinks is hot?)

Regardless, this was the situation that garnered the attention of everyone nearby. Student, teacher, staff, ghost, dorm head and vice dorm head alike. Everyone stool, dumbfounded or cheering at the spectacle before them. As a crowd gathered around you two while you exchanged blows, you were interrupted by a lion’s roar.

“What the fuck is going on here?” Leona hissed, stepping into the circle and positioning himself between you and Lance.

Soon, another body entered the arena, standing at your opposite side.

A cream white handkerchief was in your vision, now, and a soothing voice added, “Clean your nose, trickster. We can deal with this.”

Leona glared at Rook, then at Lance, then glanced back to you. “What did he do?”

“He’s been making…comments. For about the past month. I…”

Leona held up one hand, a sadistic glint in his eyes as he cut you off, “Then the creep’s right. We’ve got this from here. Just enjoy the show.” He winked, then nodded his head toward Lance, who looked ready to piss himself as Leona and Rook turned to him with matching menacing smiles.

Lance began to run, but one weak little jock can’t outrun a lion.

The two gave chase, and the group chased them in turn while you stood at the edge of the hall.

In the near perfect silence you wiped away the blood on your face, eyes trailing to the bruises blooming on your knuckles and forearms. You wondered what your face must look like. Probably black and blue, if your other bruises were an indicator. The silence was broken by the clicking of dress shoes approaching on the tile.

“My, my. I wasn’t expecting this.” Azul said, strolling up beside you, “I’d heard there was a fight, I hadn’t expected you. Are you alright, Prefect?”

You sniffled and looked away, face hidden behind your hair as you stared down at the bloodied handkerchief Rook lent you in your hands.

He took a worried look over you, then took the handkerchief and wiped away the last trickle of blood from your nose. “Come, now, prefect. You wouldn’t want to miss the show. Rook and Leona notoriously hate each other, and they’re working together just for you.”

You and the shady businessman walked down the hall, Azul worriedly hovering his hands near you in case you stumbled (you did, Lance kicked your ankle hard and it hurt like hell). As you rejoined the crowd, you caught a glimpse of Leona, ripping up Lance’s uniform, while Rook smacked the shit out of him.

Your eyes went wide as Leona bit down on the boy’s forearm, blood staining both of their skin, as well as Leona’s shirt and teeth.

Rook wound back on his haunches before swinging a right hook across his body, landing directly against the bully’s jaw. There was a crack and a meaty grunt followed by a scream, and blood began to spew form his mouth. He had evidently bit through his tongue and cracked his teeth in one go.

Everyone was cheering, more so because there was something interesting going on than for your revenge. But that didn’t matter.

For once, it felt like Night Raven College was safe. Not for Lance, of course, but for you. If you had told them sooner, they would have done the same. If you had hit him sooner, the same thing could have happened.

Every dorm and vice dorm leader would have your back. But what meant it most was Leona. The normally lethargic lion had bared his fangs in defense of you, at little more than a word as to what happened, and was currently ripping this guy to sheds.

You had never seen him nor Rook so focused, and it took a few more moments until someone attempted to pull them off Lance. Apparently he had been knocked unconscious some time ago.

As Leona and Rook were frog marched off to Crowley’s office and Lance was dragged off to the infirmary, Leona turned to give you a wink and a smirk. When Leona turned back, Rook threw a glance over his shoulder at you with a bright smile and blew a kiss.

No, nobody would be fucking with you again. The whole school got that notice by the end of the day.

#twisted wonderland #twst headcanons #azul ashengrotto #twst mc #twisted wonderland headcanons #twst #leona kingscholar #rook hunt #rook hunt x reader #leona kingscholar x reader #content warning: violence

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akhenaten-imhotep · 23 days

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Memory #4: Cruel Summer

content warning for violence, cannibalism and gore

Akhenaten crossed her legs as she observed the corpse on the floor. Some silly goose who thought they could break inside her home and steal from her. There were plenty of relics inside her living quarters that would be worth a fortune in the black market. Some of them were what she could rescue from the ruins of Tizca. The sorceress swore to her friend on their deathbed that she would protect what was left of their people's legacy. There was no fetting way she would let the relics end up in some snotty noble's gallery, a pox upon those spoiled brats.

There were more corpses in the living room and in the kitchen. They must have thought the elderly mutant was easy prey. That couldn't be further from the truth. Even in her old age, Akhenaten was dangerous. The robbers were twisted in ways that resembled some mad sculptor's idea of art. One of them no longer had their head. The information gathered from their brain revealed they were sent by Lord Titus, a man with more vanity than sense. Her Celestial Geist comrades would definitely be hearing about this.

The fact that the robbers had disguised themselves as servants to get inside the Wild Autumn Wind was concerning. Even more that they knew about the relics. One of the Celestial Geist's own serfs had betrayed them in exchange for coin. May Ne-gash have mercy on their soul, for Akhenaten would have none. She would start with them and then move on to the nobles the astartes were working for as mercenaries. All of them would have one cruel summer.

#content warning: gore #content warning: cannibalism #content warning: violence #memory number four #memories #fanfiction #warhammer 40k

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phant0mspades · 1 year

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MSW36/ACC#998255

Audio clip from the fourth neurology session with MATTHEW WALSH. Subject continues to resist, further treatment required along with a review of prescriptions.

#(myedit)#audio from Captain America the Winter Solder #content warning: violence #implied violence cw #cw screaming #Spy and the Asset arc #antecedent action*

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canisalbus · 8 months

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What if I told you that RoobrickMarine went and wrote an entire novella starring my 16th century dog couple? It's very canon-adjacent, well researched and thoughtfully put together, has inspired me a ton during these past months and it's now publicly available at AO3. I highly recommend it.

✦ Separation ✦

#content warnings for sex violence self harm and general angst #six chapters 41K words #people who have asked for longer stories of these two please give this one a look #I've watched this unfold since late may? early july? and it's been an exciting experience #I'm not a writer I think it's better than what I could've come up with #honestly though the way he managed to get inside Machete's and Vasco's heads was uncanny their mannerisms and thought processes are spot on #some of the events aren't canon but they might as well be #and most of the background details and backstory tidbits are accurate believe me he's very well versed on their lore #big history nerd so the worldbuilding is intense #you get to meet the dog pope #there's saint sebastian #roommate hijinks #it gets kind of bleak at times though so be mindful of that #it's not all fluff and good feelings #Separation #Heinaven #RoobrickMarine #own characters #own art #artists on tumblr #CanisAlbus #Vasco #Machete #anthro #sighthound #dogs #canine #animals #if you end up reading the whole thing it would be really sweet if you left a little comment as a thanks for his hard work

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saturdaynightspecialpresentation · 6 months

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Poor Things

First of all, Emma Stone’s performance is as good as everybody is saying. Stone takes a very difficult role that easily could have gone very, very wrong and makes it look like the most effortless thing in the world.

I have been looking at the reviews, good and bad, and I think that the minority of people who didn’t vibe with this movie had slightly skewed expectations.

Poor Things starts out at Tetsuo The Iron Man levels of fucked up, but by the end it has dropped to Edward Scissor hands levels of fucked up. This is probably plenty of weirdness for the average movie-goer, but true connoisseurs of mondo cinema should calibrate their expectations.

Second, apparently this is being talked up as a sort of feminist coming of age fable chronicling an everywoman’s sexual awakening and liberation, and it really isn’t that, and I think if you are hoping for that you’ll come away disappointed.

Better, I think, to look at it as an autistic coming of age fable and power fantasy, which I think it does a tremendous job at.

Very minor spoilers under the cut; really, this is more an essay about what I thought the film was about than a review, my review would be that it's somehow simultaneously a feel-good crowd-pleaser AND a movie where an adult woman with the brain of a toddler stabs the eyes out of a corpse with a scalpel and then plays with its penis (I wasn't kidding with the Tetsuo comparison)

Honestly now that I've actually written that out I have maybe underestimated how impressive it is that Yorgos Lanthimos made a movie where that happens on screen but somehow basically everybody loves the movie.

In terms of sex, we do watch Bella discover sex, but she very quickly comes to a conclusion about her relationship with it which never once changes throughout the rest of the movie:

She likes it, she likes it more with an attractive partner, she is utterly lacking in any kind of sexual jealousy, and she doesn't attach too much more to it than that.

This is an odd comparison, but Bella treats sex the way Joey did on Friends. A man acting this way is a sitcom cliche, but a woman acting the same way…

This is a film that is really, really not interested in the real-world consequences of this kind of sex; in fact, given that a pregnancy is the inciting incident of the film, it came off a little weird to me that the possibility of a pregnancy or STD was never really addressed (unless there was a line or two that I missed while I was in the bathroom).

For the most part, though, I was able to get past it by just thinking of it as a heightened world. The sets and settings are extremely artificial, and ultimately I figured, “Hey, if I can buy this kind of thing as harmless and fun in a sitcom, I can buy it in this other kind of heightened reality.

I will say, I don't think Bella is meant to be an every-woman, and that there's textual support for this in the film itself.

All of the women Bella deals with in some way question her approach to sex, making it clear, sometimes through explicit dialog, other times more reading between the lines, that her approach to sex is not for them.

If there’s any particularly feminist message in the film, it’s that when confronted with Bella’s bizarre approach to the world, none of the women get angry at her, and most of the men she meets do.

But Bella’s relationships with other women aren’t really the meat of the film, that’s more about her relationship with men, and particularly the way that they feel, deep in their bones, that they should have control over any woman that they have sex with.

Duncan Wedderburn, when he first discovers Bella and convinces her to go away with him, thinks he is tricking and seducing a beautiful naif who he can use and then discard when he tires of her. Their relationship disintegrates as it becomes clear that Bella hasn’t been tricked at all; she wanted exactly what he was able to give, a chance to sow her wild oats by having some no strings attached sex with an attractive, likable person in an exciting foreign city.

This makes Wedderburn increasingly unhappy and unhinged (He says at one point that he has become what he hates, a “grasping succubus”) much to Bella’s growing consternation. She has no idea why he can’t simply be happy having sex with her and otherwise letting her do what she wants, and he is so committed to a certain vision of gender roles that he can’t even begin to explain it, he can only lash out in frustration.

And that I think is the meatier part of the film; Bella doesn’t so much flout social expectations as she is simply totally unaware that they exist.

Honestly I think the character isn’t so much coded as autistic as she just is autistic. Bella is a woman who is basically totally unaware of social expectations and constantly taken aback to discover that they exist.

More than that, she has to figure out a way to work around the fact that many of the people who become most enraged by her are also so totally lacking in self-reflection, and view their social situation as so normal, so self-evidently obvious that they cannot explain to her why it is she has made them angry. They suddenly fly into rages that clearly perplex Bella and which they themselves don’t even bother to explain, because they regard their own ideas as self-evident.

Bella is an idealized autistic hero; personally as outlandish as she is I don’t really think the film expects us to take the side of anybody else, and I think there are some fairly subtle and accurate bits of autistic behavior on her part.

She responds to life as a kind of social experiment, attempting to parse out a set of logical rules and, especially in the latter parts of the movie, she often justifies her actions with a perfectly sensible internal logic that the emotional men in her life can’t parse out. Late in the film, when she and Wedderburn are destitute, she prostitutes herself for 30 francs, and with implacable logic, explains the two reasons that Wedderburn ought to be quite happy she has done so: First, her john was much worse at sex than Wedderburn, which ought to satisfy his ego, and second, they now have 30 francs and the potential to earn more.

Wedderburn does not appreciate her logical approach.

Another thing that strikes me as very true is that Bella has a very odd theory of mind for other people. There’s a scene where, traumatized by the unspeakable poverty and suffering she sees in Alexandria, she puts all of Wedderburn’s money in a box and rushes out to give it to the poor. Unfortunately the ship is leaving, but two port attendants tell her that they will be staying on the island, and would be happy to deliver a package. She tells them that she has a big box filled with money and they should give it to the island’s poor, and they agree to do so. Now, the film never tells us one way or another whether they keep their word; but Bella herself retains an iron certainty that they did exactly what she asked them to. Now, we know Bella understands what lying and deceit are, because we’ve seen her trick people before, like when she chloroforms McCandles to run away with Wedderburn. But it never once occurs to her that these sailors might do something similar. Call it paradoxical, but that kind of thinking is common in autistic people.

There’s also the scene where the self-professed cynic Harry Astley shows her the suffering in Alexandria; he admits, when he sees how terribly it has affected her, that he didn’t tell her simply because he thought it was the truth of the world, but that her attitude made him angry, and he wanted to hurt her. A very common part of the autistic coming of age is the slow realization that not everything people tell you is part of a dispassionate, scientific search for the truth.

There’s also a scene in a whorehouse in which Bella argues that it would make more sense to have the women decide who is to sleep with the johns, so that then the john could be more confident that the girl was attracted to him, which he must doubt if he chooses. You can tell I’m autistic because I immediately had the thought, “Well, but the johns would probably be worried that nobody would choose them.”

One of Bella’s fellow working girls instead tells her, “Some of them like the fact that we don’t have a choice”.

#poor things #movie review #autism #cw violence #I'm actually not sure what kind of content warning I should put for the corpse stabbing

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raviniaraven · 1 year

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Hey just a heads up if you're going to Minneapolis Pride this weekend, if you pass a booth with people asking you to watch a video and they'll pay you a dollar, don't do it. They're a group like PETA that's trying to trick you into watching a graphic video about animal slaughter. It's a ten minute video of animal gore that they're trying to play off as activism. If you are any type of sensitive to gore, don't watch the video.

This isn't any sort of criticism of vegans or vegetarians, this is just a friendly warning about groups that want to show you animals dying and covered in blood. Regardless of your opinions on animal welfare, that's not okay to show to people with no warning.

#this group has been at Pride in Loring Park before so i just wanna warn people in case theyre here this year #if you still wanna do it go ahead but they dont really give any content warning #just 'hey well give you a dollar to watch this' and thats all you get #pride #minneapolis #minneapolis pride #animal abuse #animal violence #if theres something i forgot to tag this with lemme know and ill add it i know some people get really upset by mentions of this stuff

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cobaltcreations · 1 month

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Me and my partner @the-good-ol-art-corner collaborated on this AWESOME poster for one of our favorite Bendy Aus @toontiedterror by @dictatortirah !! I am in LOVE with how it came out and I am so excited to see how this story and world develops!!

I put so many details into this, it is absolutely silly, but I had a swell time doing them. Those headshots on the missing posters belong to the staff from our own Bendy project @howdy-folks-its-showtime and we didn't even intend to make two versions. But I put so much into the background... I just had to make a version without the foreground to show it off <3

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zhuzhee · 1 year

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baby girl its pipe time!!

#tma #the magnus archives #elias bouchard #jurgen leitner #well. post jurgen leitner #elias fucking sprinted when he saw leitner. probably had ten minor heart attacks along the way and smacked that librarian down fr #my art #AND CONTENT WARNINGS WAIT #cw death #cw violence #cw murder #the magnus archives fanart #mag80

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cheerioskid · 8 months

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hermittober day 4: bound!

they hate each others guts!!!

#CONTENT WARNING #cw: violence #martyn inthelittlewood #martyn itlw #itlw fanart #zombiecleo #zombie cleo fanart #double life #dl smp #double life cleo #double life martyn #trafficblr #hermittober #hermittober23 #mcyt #mcyt fanart #traditional art #my art

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simmyfrobby · 2 days

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“Autopsy,” from A Cruelty Special to Our Species: Poems, Emily Jungmin Yoon

hockey poetry post nr ?

#cw: blood #cw: serious injury #hockey poetry posts #cw: violence #I would write a medical malpractice content warning but it’s the nhl so I guess that’s a given

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syoddeye · 3 months

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siphon, part four

john price x f!reader part one | two | three | four ~2.3k words cw: kidnapping, implied stalking, dubcon/noncon oral, blood, violence, gore, death

An opportunity arises more than a month into your 'stay'.

"I'm takin' off for a few hours," John announces.

The dishes in the sink rattle beneath the dropped scrub brush. You tuck your chin to your shoulder and glance back. "Oh?"

He stands in the mouth of the hall in a jacket, thumbing through a keyring. "Got an errand."

The question forms instantly, but you hold it back for fear of appearing too eager. Returning to the dishes, you finish rinsing a plate and set it on the drying rack. Behind you, you listen to him putter between the den and the kitchen.

"I assume I'm staying here?"

John hasn't left you alone since you woke up in the backseat of his truck, head splitting. Since then, you've studied the cabin, inside and out. Wherever you are, the location is remote, thickly wooded, and mountainous. A minimum of an hour outside of the city. It's clear he took great pains to ensure you remain indoors. Although he's yet to employ the many security measures beyond the locks on doors and windows, you've observed an alarm panel. You've seen the gun. Then there is his favorite method of control - his sheer physicality. John's built, solid, and efficient. From the books on history, war, politics, and self-sufficiency, your working theory is he's former military. There is no need for a leash when he can outrun you.

He doesn't answer.

You turn to face him, untying the ridiculously frilly apron you might've thought was cute if a boyfriend had given it to you—not your kidnapper. Captivity has a way of killing romance.

His eyes fixate on your hands loosening the garment, and you watch as he selects two keys from the ring by feeling alone. The keys are simple brass, two different sizes. He plays with them idly, evidently lost in some sick domestic fantasy. You stare at them a moment longer – oh. You know where the keys go.

With his preternatural instincts, John returns to earth, raking his eyes from your form as you hang the apron. You cannot stem the burgeoning panic mounting in your chest.

"Sweetheart–"

"No."

As if you have a say.

John considers you, his gaze light and careful when he glances at the kitchen around you, but it settles heavily upon your person. He cracks his neck and pushes the key ring back into his pocket.

"Care to repeat yourself?" He echoes.

You inch to the right. Steps away, a pair of kitchen shears sits. Tonguing your lip, you reach for a reason—any reason—to let him hear reason. "I'll be good. Cuff me to the couch, lock me in the bathroom…Please. Don't put me back in there."

He tracks your movement. He tracks everything. "Not how it works, 'm afraid. C'mere."

This isn't how it is supposed to go. Maybe fucking John didn't grant you the access you thought it would, but it is supposed to make him believe you housebroken. Amicable to whatever plans he has for you, which, you know, he has. He's ruining your plans. Ruining everything.

"Please, I'll-"

"This is not a negotiation. Now come here." He beckons.

A petulant anger flares in your belly. Asking John into your body every night is supposed to mean something. If he puts you back in the kennel, it's all been for naught. He acts as if it's beyond his control, that he didn't contrive the entirety of this nightmare. It shatters something inside of you.

With the force you pull the shears out, the utensil holder cracks on the counter. John curses, closing the distance in three giant steps, and you fight a losing battle. He wrenches them out of your hand, tosses them, and drags you by the hair. You kick and slap with your free hand, but with a cruel rip of his hand, you feel hair come away.

He hauls you down the short corridor. Your breaths come in quick gasps as panic claws its way up your throat. You bark and fight like a stray dog on the business end of a catch-all. It's fruitless.

"Fuck you!"

"Later."

John fishes the keys out, unlocks the room, throws you into it, and slams the door behind him. You bolt into the corner. He ignores you while he opens the cage.

"Now," He points a finger at the entrance.

It isn't fair.

"I'm going to kill you." You blurt out.

John looks unimpressed, sighing. He advances slowly. There is no gentleness in his posture.

"Fuck you." You repeat in a hiss, tensing for the fight you know you'll lose.

His frustration laces with undisguised lust. "Say 'fuck you' again. It sounds like an invitation."

It's inexorable – he violently collects you as if for a dance in the kitchen. You glare through the bars, and he closes the padlock. You both breathe heavier. His hand lingers on the door, and you see the faint imprint of your teeth on the webbing.

"Let's see how much fight you've got left when I come back, hm?"

You lunge for his hand, eager for another bite.

He draws back in time, and his laughter cracks like a whip. "I love you, sweetheart. Nothing you do will change that." He brushes himself off and admires your sulking. "And I've got all the time in the world to change your mind. You'll love me.”

The cabin falls into silence with his departure. You hold yourself tight and take deep breaths. You need to focus. Stupid, stupid, stupid. You could've rolled over and let him lock you up for a couple of hours. But no, you flipped the chessboard like a fucking idiot.

A dripping noise coaxes your eyes to the water bottle. There's a crack in the plastic between the nozzle and the body. Probably broke when he threw you in here. You squeeze your eyes shut tight, reaching for the comfort of sleep. The REM cycle evades you most nights, what with the monster snoring in your ear over your shoulder.

Drip.

Water erodes even the most solid foundations, and you haven't had the luxury of stability in weeks. You grab the dispenser with both hands and pry it from its fastenings. It hurts your hands and takes more energy than you'd like, but it comes loose, and the plastic zip ties snap. Cursing the damned thing out, you hurl it awkwardly through the cage. It doesn't travel far. Doesn't feel as triumphant as you'd've hoped. A stream of water pools from its belly as it bleeds out on its side.

A despairing voice wishes it were you.

Your mouth is dry when he fetches you.

"I'm sorry."

John's grip is ironclad. His face pinches in mild confusion as he helps you from the kennel before a smug smile replaces it.

"What for?"

"Being difficult," You murmur, stretching your legs. "Breaking the water bottle"

"You're a fuckin' brat," He corrects, pointing to the plastic and metal and slurs into your temple. He reeks of whiskey. "Pick it up. Then do the dishes."

You follow him out into the kitchen and suppress a groan. Your stomach grumbles, smelling the late dinner he cooked for himself when he returned and before he let you out. Beside the sink, your destination sits a tin of tuna singled out from the others. You open and eat the bland fish before he changes his mind. You fill the sink with warm water and soap and start in on the chore.

John sits in the living room, well within view, smoking a cigar. The stink carries in your direction, cutting through the sterile scent of the dish soap.

For a few minutes, the silence sits like a third person in the room, occasionally interrupted by the clinking of a dish and the dipping of the brush in the water.

"I'm in a better mood," He starts out of nowhere.

You strain to listen, gauging whether it's a conversation or a soliloquy, and then dunk the cracked bottle, massaging the pliable material and working it under the suds.

"I grabbed a pint and told some folks about my woman troubles," he snorts, laughing at his own joke. I got some good advice."

The image of John holding court at some smoky bar comes uninvited. What lies did he tell his fellow patrons? That his 'girlfriend' threw a fit and stepped out of line?

Beneath the water, the plastic cracks within your tight grip. Your arm jerks, sloshing a smattering of bubbles onto the counter. You swiftly clean up after yourself and move on to drying.

"Leave 'em in the rack." John orders, rising from the armchair in the dark of the living room, leaving his cigar to burn out on the ashtray.

You fumble in surprise at his steps. Should be used to it by now. You hurry with the dish towel. "John, there's only–"

"Now."

His tone brooks no argument, not that you were in a position to dare. Swallowing thick, you abandon the chore half-complete and slink into his arms. John bullies you down the hall, grabbing handfuls of your ass. "Told me to be nice to you, eat your cunt a bit." He sighs into your hair, nudging the bedroom door open with a foot.

You don't fight him or gravity and fall back on the mattress.

John looms, eyeing you like a second dinner. Leaves the light on to see every gruesome detail. He makes short work of your jeans and rubs your calves appreciatively before discarding your underwear.

"So I'm giving you a freebie, just this once. I upset you," he explains and kisses your thighs. “You thought you were ready, but have you ever heard of the three-three-three rule, darling?"

"N-No," You stammer when he pinches for an answer.

"Three days, three weeks, three months. The three most important dates when bringing a dog into a home. Though, by my estimates, it's been working just as well for you."

John chuckles before delving into your heart. The lurch in your belly barely beats out nausea.

Three months. You'd rather die.

The sharp jab in your chest demands freedom.

You let him lose himself. It's easy. He's eaten you out for hours before. You carefully disguise your movements as enthusiasm. You shove your shirt up and over your bra, fondling yourself, discreetly withdrawing the nozzle you broke off of the water bottle in the sink.

Dread and anticipation mix, making you tremble and quake. John, of course, thinks it's all him. It is, in a way. You prop yourself up on your elbows, meeting his eyes briefly when he opens them to take in the parting of your lips.

"John, please," You beg, threading one hand through his short hair.

His eyes shut in focus, humming gleefully, and he doesn't see you coming on either front.

Swinging with everything left, you stab the sharp, concave end of the nozzle into his neck. It sinks in like his windpipe wants it. You both jerk, you with relief and him with a pained, wet scream. It's messy. Blood blooms around his fingers where he clutches the metal. You drag your jellied legs across the bed as he stands, stumbling forward to grab you with a desperate and angry hand.

At his peak, you cannot outrun him. Bleeding profusely from the neck? Tips the scales. You book it to the door and the hall, and he comes crashing after you. Adrenaline and pure fucking fear hurl you down to the kitchen. You skid to a halt on the linoleum and lunge for the drawers from which you've seen him draw knives.

John's steps are haphazard and clumsy, but the full weight of his body is behind each one. He thunders down the hall, slurring, trying to push out words. It all comes out in bellows. A dying animal. Seeing you grab a cook's knife, he stumbles, pausing at the threshold of the corridor. Locking eyes, he reaches for the metal tube stuck in his throat instead. He gurgles something that roughly sounds like you bitch.

"I wouldn't do that." You half-heartedly warn, brandishing the knife.

He wrenches it out anyway, hand slapping to the hole immediately after, but there's too much blood. It's too slick. Red sprays. More than you thought.

John makes it one step before he slowly slumps to the ground, and you stalk closer, giving a wide berth with the blade in hand. He sags back to the wall, feebly pressing thick fingers against the gaping wound in his neck. It's useless. You know it. He knows it.

You crouch, naked from the waist down. Even now, he ogles, the shitstain.

"Do you need help, John?"

His eyes narrow, struggling to focus. The blue looks flatter. Vacant.

A genuine smile splits your face.

"Why don't you just ask?"

The truck dies just off the forestry road. Of course. At least hell is in the rearview.

The sun is barely above the horizon, and John's phone still can't get a signal. Cursing him out, you slip the rucksack full of supplies you found while raiding the cabin. You could've grabbed more but couldn't stay there any longer. You pussyfooted over the gun, ultimately deciding it wasn't worth the energy to find the right key or pry the door open. Not for a weapon you've never used before. Finding your shoes was the best discovery apart from the truck keys and his phone. You'll need them for the walk.

It's almost an hour before you hear a car. You hook a thumb, walking forward, staring intently at the bend in the road ahead. Seconds later, an old, two-seater pick-up appears, and though it takes a moment for it to stop, they do.

You clamber towards the driver’s side window as it rolls down.

“Need a ride?”

“Yes, please. My truck died. Can I get a ride to town?”

“‘Course. What’s your name?”

Giddy and relieved, you give your name as you toss the bag into the open bed.

“What’s yours?” You ask, smoothing a hand over your forehead.

Your unwitting rescuer smiles. Jesus, he’s handsome.

“Kyle.”

#john price x f!reader #john price x reader #john price x you #price x f!reader #price x reader #price x you #cw violence #cw kidnapping #cw noncon #cw blood #cw death #darkfic #read the content warnings for the love of all things #got whatever that was out of my system

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cha1cedony · 7 months

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Just thinking about how Frank’s watch that Grant got from Darryl has a little mark etched into its face of the when the dads were supposed to kill Grant and eat his skin 😀👍 Darryl scratched the time into the watch when they jumped off the bus in For Knights.

And now that time is forever on Grant’s wrist: a reminder of how he was supposed to die, how he cheated death, how he was forced to cheat death by killing something else. The watch has been broken for years. Its hands are frozen, and I wonder if that reminds him of Frank’s death or of his own… his childhood that died in that moment. He’s forever that scared little 12 year old blindly swinging an axe too big for his body and hoping to (praying not to) kill something.

#or if it reminds him of Frank… and how Darryl’s childhood died with him #ahem ahemn anyway.#chalcy stuff #dungeons and daddies #dndads #tw violence #tw death #cw violence #cw death #idk how to tag content warnings on Tumblr :( sorry #or if it’s necessary #but better to be safe than sorry ig #I am still new and relatively inactive here okay 😭

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meeks-just-wants-to-scroll · 2 months

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“I’m a survivor, black lung!”

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faux-ecrivain · 3 months

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Mors non est finis

————————————————————- Translation; Death Isn’t the end ————————————————————-

CONTENT WARNING; Death, war, mentions of infidelity, mentions of blood and waking up in a coffin underground, and memory loss

(Name; Duke Ellis Vanguard; although he’s not actually in this part)

(Thirty Third Official Post)

———————————————————-

‘Dear Elaine,’ Is how the letter began, tears threatened to spill from your eyes, and it took all your willpower not to crumple the letter that your husband had so lovingly written. Why were you so mad? Some might ask, after all, this letter clearly showed that your husband held a lot of love for you, Right? Wrong! Firstly, your name was not Elaine, it was [Y/N]. Second of all, your husband never wrote to you with any such love.

Typically his letter were all business and war related, never once did he refer to you as Dear, or anything of the sort. You see, you and your husband (Duke Ellis) have been fighting together since the two of you were young adults. By that, I mean, you and him have been in the same war for many years. Each year brought your country a little closer to victory and throughout the many years of war (14 to be exact) your husband has never once written to you with love.

His letters were always about the war, battle tactics and how things were going on the eastern front. And you would respond in kind, albeit with a bit more passion, and talk of seeing him after the war (which he always seemed to disregard). Never once in his letters did he ever deviate from the topic of war.

Reluctantly you decided to continue reading this letter, maybe part of you hoped it was simply a letter to a friend, or a sibling, and not a letter to a lover. ‘Though it has been many weeks since we were last together, I still remember that day fondly. I recall how beautiful you looked under the moonlight, I recall the way your smile set fire to my soul and-‘

You couldn’t bare to read anymore, your heart couldn’t take it. As your eyes filled with tears, you tore your gaze away from the letter, crumpled it up and tossed it somewhere in your tent. You collapsed in your chair and covered your face with your hands. Intense betrayal wracked your body as you desperately tried to come to terms with what you’ve learned.

You didn’t understand how he could do that to you, you had been the perfect spouse. At least you thought you were, after all, you had been kind, responsive, gentle (when you weren’t on the battlefield) and loving. You never belittled him, and you always had his back, never once have you been dishonest or unfaithful.

So, how could he do that to you? Weren’t you good enough? Didn’t he say that he would always stay true to you? I mean, that’s what he wrote in his vows, and you thought vows were never meant to be broken. Were you truly so naive? What were you going to do the next time you saw him? Should you pretend nothing happened or confront him? You didn’t know, and you didn’t have an opportunity to think about it either. Because, one of your soldiers had something important to report, and it required your utmost attention.

You wipe away any tears that fell, then you stand up and leave your tent. Your eyes roam across your camp until you find the man you’re looking for. You call out to him, your tone stern and your voice steady. “Charles! You said you have something to report?” He, as were others, was visibly startled by your sudden appearance, which lifted your mood somewhat. It was nice to know that your men still respected you, even if your husband didn’t.

Charles scampered towards you and gave you his report. “Our scouts say they saw enemy shoulders approaching from the west, and it was reported that the people in the northern front are having trouble standing their ground.” You exhale sharply, the sorrows of love almost forgotten as the consequences of war require your full attention. “Tsk, that means the western front has fallen, we’ll have to double the guards on the western border.” You respond, and Charles nods rapidly in agreement. Hence, you mobilize the troops and inform them of the situation, naturally they are intimated (war is frighteningly), but they do not shirk their duties, and they courageously defend the western front.

Unfortunately you would never make it through the night, not because your troops failed, they tried their best, but because of an assassination attempt on your life. Your body was found with your throat slit and there was evidence of a struggle. It’s unknown how no one heard the struggle or why you were targeted, although most assumed it was because you were a formidable enemy. Regardless, a ceremony was held, and your family mourned (surprisingly, even your husband mourned, the little bastard). Little did they know, or anyone know, that you would not be so easily condemned.

You woke within the darkness, confused and frightened, you scratched at the wood surrounding. This causes your nails to crack and your fingers to bleed. You panic, you’ve never done well in enclosed spaces, and kick at the lid of your coffin. It feels as though the walls are closing in on you, as though there were no escape. Your body aches, and your mind can’t quite comprehend the fact that you’re trapped. You struggle, you kick, you claw, and eventually, you’ve made it out of the coffin, and onto the surface.

Unfortunately, your filthy, degraded appearance causes the nearby nobles (and commoners) to scream, some even spray you with ‘holy’ water (to deter any evil spirits from bothering them). You’re briefly disturbed by the water, but it’s also refreshing, you were quite parched after all. Whilst several civilians were panicking about the undead awakening and taking over the world, you were simply trying to crawl out of your grave (which many nobles did not like and told their servants to stop you from doing that).

It was rather annoying, all their screaming and crying, what was especially annoying was how the servants continue to kick at you. Honestly, didn’t they have anything better to do? Your bones creaked as you got out of your grave and stretched your arms above your head. Your staggering stature caused quite a few to collapse in fear, yet you were unaware of this. Your eyes roved across the plot you were buried in, it was well taken care of, but lonely.

For some reason, you felt a simmering rage build up in your heart (which was apparently still beating). You couldn’t remember why you were upset or why you were buried. Nor could you remember how you died, regardless, you felt like someone important, and decided to ask some civilians for information.

————————————————————

(okay, so I wrote this while I was playing Sims 3. I just got hit with a bout of inspiration and had to write, so there you go, and hopefully you enjoy it!)

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underforeversgrace · 6 months

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bent but not yet broken - 1

title: bent but not yet broken

words: 933

Finally, it's Ecto-Implosion time! I was partnered with the amazing @deathcomes4u and their absolutely AMAZING artwork!

Story Summary:

How short a time had Danny even been here? He’d already lost track of the days. Had he been here a week? A month? It was amazing what a void time became when every second was an all-consuming pain.

Danny Phantom has been captured by the GIW. The students of Casper High are protesting. Sam and Tucker have been notably absent, working with the Fentons to get Danny back.

What happens when the GIW bring back the hero, muzzled and beaten, on display for all of Casper High to see?

Chapter 1 of 7: Smothered by the Dusk

AO3

Tumblr Chapter Two will be here.

~~~~~~

Danny had thought the pain would get more manageable the longer the Guys in White had him. That the more he suffered, the more numb he’d become.

He was wrong.

Every breath he drew made his chest burn - though he was still unsure if that was from the Y-incision (half healed and haphazardly stitched) or the excised lung. Who knew a person could live with only one lung?

He’s a ghost, he doesn’t need to breathe! one of the agents had said.

And if his heart weren’t beating, I’d be inclined to agree with you, another had said. We should be careful, he’s very human.

That had been the one - and only - time Danny’d had hope since his capture. It had still been his first hour in their custody, all they’d done to him by that point had been the muzzle and subsequent electrocutions. When they called him human, he thought they’d stop; he thought that maybe they were more human than he and his little band had believed.

And that was when he’d gotten to listen to a debate on whether or not they could remove at least one of his lungs safely - humans with severe illness or damage to a single lung could often live full lives, after all, they’d said.

For humans, it was a last resort. For him, it was a fun start to a science experiment. In eager and excited voices, while he was chained down to a cold table, a muzzle that burned his skin strapped to his face, they discussed all the things they wanted to do to him before taking his other lung and heart - it was the last thing they wanted to do.

They didn’t want to kill him too soon.

Danny, by now, wished they had cut his heart out the first day, and that (hopefully) it would’ve let him die.

Though it may not have killed him. Apparently, he was regrowing the stolen lung, based on the scientists’ ‘follow up exploratory surgeries.’

And, as fascinating as that had been, it had led to them curiously amputating his hand and sewing it back on.

He still wasn’t sure if he was relieved or horrified when his hand had successfully reattached to his wrist after only a few days. Relieved that, well, his hand wasn’t gone.

Horrified because of how much worse this capture could be if he was unable to be killed.

How short a time had he even been here? He’d already lost track of the days. Had he been here a week? A month? It was amazing what a void time became when every second was an all-consuming pain.

Danny had tried a few methods, at first, to keep track of the comings and goings of the agents, to see if that helped him keep time. It hadn’t - sometimes he’d see the same agents for multiple back to back experiments, sometimes he’d see them every two or three, sometimes he was left alone.

In the long list of things he was unsure of was if it was worse when the experiments were going or when they weren’t. He was always in pain, regardless, but when he was alone, all he had were his thoughts and the unimpeded view of the reflective glass above him, allowing him to catalog his injuries in excruciating detail.

At least when the scientists were there, he could get lost in the hum of their voices. It was fascinating information, really, it was. So long as he didn’t acknowledge it was him they were talking about. Plus, when they were present, he got shots of extra power suppressant, which made his mind all flowy and the pain hazy, if only for a little while.

Danny laid there, by himself for now, and stared up at the ceiling, at his own reflection. This had been the longest he’d ever been left alone since he got here.

His jumpsuit could regenerate on its own, but it never had been able to fully mend between the scientists’ visits. Now, however, it was in pristine condition, and had been for over a hundred of his slow heartbeats (his only somewhat consistent measure of time in this hellhole).

It was nice to not see the scars that covered nearly every inch of his body, even if they pulsed with pain that still left him acutely aware of them. He almost looked like himself again - if he ignored the glowing green cage over the lower half of his face, connected to a collar circling his throat, skin severely burned along the edges of it all. The edge of the muzzle dug into his skin and the gag between his teeth forced his jaw open. It had stolen his voice, stolen away his ability to scream and beg for mercy.

He could feel where his teeth had cracked and his jaw had fractured from all the times he’d still tried, though. The sounds of his cries stayed stuck in his throat through all of it, and the silent screams were pulled from him whether he wanted them to or not.

Pulling his gaze from the muzzle back to his suit, his mind wandered. If his suit had had so long to heal… why would they leave him alone this long? The last thing they had done was give him an injection directly into his heart that had made his entire body feel sore. Were they finally done with him?

…then why not just kill him? They weren’t just going to leave him here, strapped down like a biology experiment to rot forever, right?

…right?

#grace writes #danny phantom #danny fenton #ectoimplosion2023 #cw gore #cw violence #i don't even know what all content warnings this needs tbh

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