#i love writing the horror aspects of it | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

Visit Blog

Explore Tumblr blogs with no restrictions, modern design and the best experience.

Fun Fact

Tumblr was created by web developers David Karp and Marco Arment.

#i love writing the horror aspects of it

sugar-grigri · 6 months

Text

If Fumiko is monstrous then Fujimoto should start presenting her as such

Fumiko is written to remind us that Denji is a child, and I repeat, she is the symbol of a child's sexual trauma in all its horror and "paradoxes".

Touching Denji without his consent, catching an adolescent who hasn't yet discovered himself off guard, is the most obvious way of proving the link between the theme of sexual assault and Fumiko, but it doesn't stop there.

The fact that Denji accepts only proves this point: it shows just how much he's someone who needs boundaries and protection. He passively listens to what he's told without question simply because Fumiko has the upper hand.

She has one, but spends her time pretending she doesn't, in particular by disguising her age like a predator, calling him "senpai" when she's 22, and playing up her protective role as a "bodyguard" when she's only there to stop Denji thinking for himself

As can be seen in the dialogue between Miri and Denji, she positions herself as an interlocutor, standing in Denji's shadow, influencing his decisions and distracting the boy from the substance of Miri's message.

But she's a complete paradox, still trying to make Denji believe she's protecting him, she refers to Chainsaw Man as a "child", which rather than demonstrating a good intention shows that she's well aware of what Denji is and that she's abusing him head-on.

Who protects a child by attacking him?

Once again, I insist, these are two pages from the same chapter. Dare you tell me that Fumiko doesn't present any contradictions?

Above all, she makes it seem as if she only wants what's best for Denji, even when he hasn't responded to her pleas for help. Once again, there's a paradox: the predator blames her victim for not having seen her own vulnerability, whereas she’s only abusing those of her victim.

Fumiko is a metaphor for the very dangerousness of sexual assault, gentle on the surface but insidious, its violence only made clear and felt after the event, rising like a tide.

When Yoshida convinces Denji to give up his normal life, he leaves him in the hands of Fumiko, a public hunter, who symbolises the extent to which, despite the monster in front of them, danger also exists among men, and that the milieu of public hunters is a harmful world for a child.

I think the reason Fujimoto doesn't immediately place Fumiko in a position of condemnation is to instil a feeling of frustration and powerlessness at seeing Denji unprotected, to make it clear that "he's missing something", a parental figure.

But I think that for the writing to be complete, the author has to take a clear stance on the subject, in his own way of course, but explicitly

Seeing Fumiko next to Denji makes me anxious, it's such a common form of violence that it pulls me out of my reading.

Fumiko is a monster, so I pray that Fujimoto will have fun explicitly detailing her dark side and her horror.

If he doesn't, then she'll remain an unfinished and confusing chimera, the result of lazy writing and a fear of commitment.

#csm 136 #csm 137 #csm 139 #csm 142 #chainsaw man #csm #csm part 2 #csm spoilers #denji #fumiko #fumiko mifune #my thoughts #But I'm a realist I can also see the flaws in an author I love Fujimoto likes the dissident and morally controversial aspect of his work #Even when the violence is correctly presented there will be no narrator to condemn it Fujimoto doesn't risk accentuating Fumiko's horror #but just making it more present more controversial Just to disturb his readers who sometimes have no real use for the script.#Maybe I'm being too hopeful and justifying the shortcomings of Fumiko's writing to reassure myself #It's possible she's the black spot in part 2 #In a jump shonen you can't present a 22-year-old girl touching a teenager as a joke.#I'm in favour of creative freedom but I'm also in favour of authors being aware of their audience.

162 notes · View notes

medico-meo · 6 days

Text

Imagine if being heat/rut with beast TF has a greater impact on the gameplay—like, for instance, if people get handsy with you and bring you to high enough arousal you can turn the tables on them. “Is this about Harper’s physical check-up?” Yes it is indeed about just that. Near non/dubcon and breeding mention under the cut (< deranged)

The beast within you is sending you into rut.

The doctor’s cold, clinical touches melt into the heat swirling under your abdomen. You struggle to swallow the noise threatening to escape the tip of your tongue, finding your throat unbearably dry. It only gets worse as the minutes stretch on—the heavy haze steadily consumes your ability to think straight.

You notice Doctor Harper peering at your face through your blurry vision. You think he’s talking to you, but the weighty dizziness prevents you from comprehending so much as a single syllable to instead directing you to the chilled fingers slowly move away from your length—

Something inside you snaps.

No. No. No. No. No.

(1) Resist | Willpower: Impossible

(2) Give in

Your body moves on its own.

When you come to, you find Harper staring up at you impassively while being pinned to the hospital bed under your own weight. | + Stress | + Arousal

“Is there something you need?” His voice is as soothing as you can remember, if not for an imperceptible edge. | + Stress

This is a mistake. You take a deep breath and open your mouth. “Doctor, I—”

Your hand trails down his chest, unbuttons his coat, and slides under his shirt. Electrifying thrill rushes down your spine.

The beast within you yearns. | + + Stress | + + Arousal

“Doctor.” Pressing lightly against his abdomen, your primal instincts aptly hold you in thrall. “Right here. Let me breed you.”

#dolwa txt #dolwa writes #dol pc #dol harper #harper the doctor #I NEED A REASON TO FUCK HIM #but yeah i would love. a horror aspect to the tfs #loss of agency etc etc #i imagine this would trigger a consensual(? encounter #that massively raises your stress at the end #and allow you access to suppressants or smth #tw: dubcon #degrees of lewdity

21 notes · View notes

thefuturewithoutus · 2 years

Text

god loves me and there's nothing i can do about it!!

anyways yes jt s5 au again. thinking about tim being left with the incomprehensible horror that is pupil jon. jon's still in there, somewhere, but barely.

i headcanon that in the moments where jon's not eating the trauma of the world his communication to tim is telepathic. it's like blaring white noise and sounds like something that isn't human trying to imitate a human. it isn't comforting. it feels wrong

edit: click for quality! tumblr got the colors got fucked up lolll </3

#the heart #tma #the magnus archives #jontim #jonathan sims #timothy stoker #fiveverse #<- new nsme #leaning hard into the horror aspect of this bc it's inherently an awful situation #and also bc ive really gotten into horror again lately #friendship ended w drawing human jon btw. weird creature jon is my new best friend #i think this might be my last one for a bit because i don't have any further ideas but i will be thinking about them #the dialogue from panel 2 is from elias' monologue in 193 btw i love word salad horror but i cannot write it..

163 notes · View notes

scrawnytreedemon · 9 months

Note

What stupid names? Can I know the names?

Ghirahim, Sephiroth, Zant, Kirby... I'm blanking but I know I have so many more.

(shout-outs to Cris!!! love ya buddy xoxo)

Micolash is a perfectly respectable irl name(a Hungarian variation of "Nikolas", iirc), but on him it has such a Vibe but then again I am writing Him. The name is the least outrageous thing here lmao.

In general, I tend to like villains, and villains tend to have "stupid-as-fuck-on-a-real-person" names. They might be perfectly serviceable with titles, but the moment you take them into a more intimate setting it's just... Bro. You're getting called that, on a day-to-day basis?

God, so sorry for blanking out on the more ridiculous names, I know I have more... But I think the grandiosity of the first two should do plenty well.

#scrawny rambles #scrawny answers #writing ghirahimg ghirahim ghirahim over and over again made me a l m o s t break my no-redundant epithets rule #(which is to say if we already know a character has a trait)#(there's no need for me to point it out again as a clunky name-replacement.)#i remained strong!! but good lord #granted this might have more to do with my Autism than the names themselves #so take that as you will #(minus the kirby. hi cris! i can't believe you've gotten me invested in these goons)#i say knowing damn well the cosmic horror aspect always intrigued me #seriously though you will have some of the most hardcore shit nintendo has ever dared to publish #and it will take place in an area called. dreamland. on a planet called planet popstar that's a flat golden wait for it #that's right a star #honestly kirby is this for the entire thing but that is on me #LOOK the lore goes hard you gotta admit #i need to finish up that magolor gijinka page... 2/3 designs have their colouring finished why did i stop???#i love him alot again thank y o u CRIS! <3

18 notes · View notes

iggydabirdkid · 7 months

Text

So this was supposed to be a short thing. And it turned into the seconds longest thing I've written 😅 Don't @ me with when this is set because I got no clue. Sometime after the end of Retribution at least, with Annie being more open despite the situation. Enjoy!

My Ao3

Title: Anniversary

Word Count: 6258

-----

You’ve been awake for longer than a human body is supposed to go without sleep. You’re not quite sure why. No that’s a lie. You don’t like to sleep, or more accurately, you dread the dreams that sleep brings. The nightmares that wrap you up so tight, dig their claws into your soul and slip in through the scars left in your marbled skin.

You suppose you have slept, in a way. Your body has at least. Jumping into to other people’s minds is the only way to sooth the aches and pains of your own form but recently things have felt… off. You’re not sure why, but it’s such a gut feeling that even in bodies so different from your own your mind refuses to switch to match. Leaving your brain to run into overtime. Clocking hours that would normally be spent furthering your plans and instead leaving you feeling drained and jittery. Because your mind is the most important part of you. It is you. It’s all that you are.

You’re not even running on fumes. At this point you’re a tank that’s been empty for a concerning amount of time, struggling to keep on moving as it splutters and coughs.

You know it’s dangerous. Even for someone like you so used to restless nights. There must be something else that keeps sleep at bay. Something your addled mind can’t remember. A shadowed blur out the corner of your vision has your head snapping to the side. You stare wide-eyed and unblinking at the empty kitchen space where you swear… You struggle to your feet, abandoning the comfort of your couch in favour of checking your cabinets, draws, nothing out of place. Nothing amiss. You rub your hands over your face as you sigh and the temptation of sleep tugs at your weary limbs.

The high-pitched screeching of something cuts through your thoughts and you jump. Your heart stutters in your chest and it takes you far longer than you’d like to recognize the shrill ring of your mobile. Even longer to remember that it’s snug in your pocket. You fumble for the device, feeling like its buzzing may time out and you answer the call before checking to see who it is.

“Hello?” you mumble, voice quiet as you lean your hip against your kitchen counter.

“Hey Annie. Sorry, did I wake you?” Julia. Of course. You hope the huff you make sounds more like a laugh than it feels to your ears.

“I wasn’t sleeping,” you reply, “What’s up? Something the matter?” you ask.

“Does something have to be wrong for me to call you?” you can picture the grin on the other end, yet something in her tone sounds different than it would do if she were simply teasing you.

“No. But you normally call me for a reason.”

“Maybe it’s just to hear your voice?”

“Ha ha Julia.”

The silence that stretches afterwards turns awkward when neither of you speaks. You’re struggling enough as it is staying upright, forcing coherent sentences through your lips as your mind buzzes. You don’t know what her excuse is.

“Annie?”

“Hmm?”

“Are you okay?”

“Why do you ask?” You frown as your gaze wanders over the expensive furniture of your open plan living space.

“Because of what day it is?” her voice sounds strained, though that may just be your imagination.

“What day it is?” you parrot back, unable to form a better answer.

“You don’t… Do you not…” You sigh.

“Haven’t been super good at keeping track of things the last few… well… most of my life really,” you chuckle then. Self-deprecation is always your go to.

“Nooo, really?”

“Smartass.” Her turn to laugh now, the sound is brief and light and ends far too soon to be anything other than an expected reaction.

“Do you really not know the day, or are you just pretending?” she sounds skeptical and you don’t blame her.

“Jules, I can’t even remember what I had for breakfast this morning. Or if I even ate breakfast at all.” You didn’t. You can feel your stomach knawing away at your insides yet you can’t find it in yourself to care.

“It’s the anniversary of… of Heartbreak.”

Oh.

You feel your breath stopper in your throat and the space before you seems to stretch out into an eternity, becoming narrow and cramped as you feel sweat bead on your forehead and roll down your back. The air seems too warm and there’s a buzzing in your ears and an aching in your legs and you can’t focus-

“-nie? Annie? Are you still there?”

It takes you a while to reply and you feel like it took just as long for Julia’s words to reach you.

“Still here.” Your voice is hoarse and your vision swims.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t. Just…” you trail off as you struggle to find the right words, any words, “Did you really just call to remind me of a day I’d rather not think about?” You’d erase the entire nightmare from your mind if you could. Scour the ridges of your brain till they bled but where would that leave you then? Who would you be without your trauma binding the pieces of you together?

“I normally spend this day inside, alone. But I thought, maybe you wanted to come over?”

“Come over.” You repeat. You don’t want her to see you like you are now. You know you can’t look good. But what else could you say that wouldn’t make her even more worried than she must already be. If you were in better shape you could probably think of an excuse, a way to wriggle free of this impending encounter. But you’re not, so you can’t, so instead you let out a long sigh as you tilt your head back and stare at the ceiling, lights flickering above not quite there. You close your eyes, “Sure. Sure.” She must hear it in your voice. Your reluctance.

“You don’t have to.”

“I said I’m coming alright.” You will your words to sound harsh but you can’t muster the energy, “I’ll be there when I can.”

“Alright,” her voice is soft and your heart aches, “Be safe.”

You hang up, let your arms drop to your sides and stare into space with your brain thinking of nothing. This is a bad idea. You feel like you’re floating, tethered by a single thread as you stare down at yourself from above. Aware of your body while the world around you feels false and fickle. You can almost hear Doctor Finch’s voice in your mind, and then you do hear her and you snap back as your head shoots up just in time to see a shimmer of a form fading fast from your eye. Your hand clenches tight around your phone and you push off from the counter.

You really do need to sleep. But now you have plans. And cancelling them will only lead to Julia snooping. And that above all, is what you don’t need right now.

+++++

It takes all the willpower you have to keep your legs moving and your eyes open and the whispers at bay. It’s not safe for you to be out but if you can make it to Julia’s you’ll be safe. She can keep you safe. Her static will help if anything. And if not? Well then maybe just having another presence by your side will be enough.

Your hands are deep in your pockets, your fingers curled into fists gouging crescent shaped grooves into your palms as your feet move you forwards with no thought. You think you’re drawing blood but the sharp piercing pain helps ground you just enough for your vision to clear and you realize you’re outside Julia’s apartment. You have no idea how you managed to get here in one piece, let alone how long it took you. You stand on the sidewalk and you know there must be bleed over. You know you have to be projecting as no one gets close to you. Skirting around your bubble and crossing the street before drawing near and normally you would put that up to you just being you. With your dead-eyed stare and general leave me alone expression but when you turn your head to watch those around you, you find them staring back.

All of them. Staring. With eyes the same shade of green.

Dead eyes.

Her eyes.

“Annie?”

The voice startles you enough that you stumble, almost tripping over a crack in the pavement before you regain your footing. Julia stands before you with an open face plastered with concern. Its not an expression she wears much around you anymore. You had been doing better. Had being the key word.

“Are you okay?” she asks with a slight tilt of her head. She’s been growing her hair out and it spills around her shoulders, framing her face with waves of chestnut brown streaked with shoots of grey. A smile finds its way onto your face and through the haze that is your vision you see her frown deepen as she takes a step towards you. The late day sun illuminates her form and her warm brown eyes are flecked with the subtlest hints of gold…

“Annie?” she’s right in front of you now and one hand reaches for your face. You let her, too tired to protest and she cups your jaw and you lean into her touch, “Are you okay?” she repeats. Firmer this time but no less soft.

“Just tired,” you mumble as you close your eyes.

“You sure?” her free hand finds one of yours and you lace your fingers together.

“Mhm.” You open your eyes and your vision blurs again and she smiles at you sadly as she drops her hand.

“Come on.” She motions towards the door with a jut of her head and her static is already working wonders. Blanketing your mind in comforting white noise and when she goes to pull your hands apart your grip hers harder, too hard if her wince is anything to go by and you wonder what she sees when she looks back at you. Trying to keep it together and if you didn’t have her hand in a death grip it would be shaking. She opens her mouth to speak but then closes it without saying a word, grips your hand tighter, and leads you inside.

The doorman gives you a quick nod and you spy a flash of green in his otherwise hazel eyes. You squeeze your own shut and allow Julia to lead the way but when your foot hits the bottom of a step, your eyes fly open.

You always take the stairs so of course she would think nothing of taking them now. But she wasn’t with you, didn’t see what you saw with her mind protected as it is so she doesn’t know. You take a few steps back, pulling your hand free as you fight to keep your fraying composure.

“Annie?” She approaches slowly with her arms out showing her intent and you shake your head, clamping your mouth shut as you plant your feet firmly on the ground. She stops and backs off, lips pursed and brows drawn and your arms are ramrod straight at your side as you gaze at the stairwell. Its shape twists and melts in front of you, “How can I help?” She steps into your line of sight and you blink out of the trance you had been falling into. You move your head to look for the elevator that you know is here somewhere- ah. There.

“Can we take the elevator?”

“Yeah of course.”

You know she’s worried about you. You’re worried about you. Pressed up to her side as you are, you’re thankful that she stays quiet during the short ride to her floor.

/////

You step into her apartment and as she closes and locks the door behind you with a short beep you finally feel as if you can breathe. The second floor isn’t as far above the world as your apartment, but any distance between you and the minds of those consumed in the rat race of everyday life is a blessing. You breathe in deep through your nose, hold the breath for a few beats, and finally exhale long and hard through your mouth. The sound is audible in the quiet space and as you turn you realize that Julia is stood by the entrance, watching you with folded arms and a small smile.

“Hey,” she speaks as she pushes off from where she’d been leaning back against the door. You meet her halfway, linking your arms around her middle as you bury your face in the crook of her neck. You inhale her scent as she hugs you tightly, humming a tune you don’t recognize as she rocks you side to side. It’s nice. In this moment. Quiet and calming, comfortable. Safe. The whispers don’t seem so sinister here and the pull of sleep is dangerously strong. Your eyes flutter close and you feel yourself relax entirely. That is until strong hands grab your shoulders and squeeze, “Annie? Hey!”

The voice is loud and irritating and you feel yourself scowl almost out of reflex as you jerk upright and blink rapidly before finding the floor beneath your feet again. Her hands are gripping you vice-like, concern drawing her features tight and suddenly her touch feels caustic so you pull away abruptly, tearing free of her hands, “Don’t shout at me,” you snap, resisting the urge to sneer as you turn and take a seat on the couch.

“Annie what’s wrong?” she comes to stand in front of you and you lean back into the cushions as you look up at her, “Please, just tell me what’s wrong so I can help.”

“I told you,” you start, “I’m just tired.”

“Bullshit. This isn’t just regular fatigue, I should know.” She would know. Shit. You can’t even come up with a convincing argument. Your brain is just a mass of fog and constant noise.

“I haven’t been sleeping.”

“Well?”

“At all.”

“For how long Annie?”

You just grimace and attempt a shrug but your shoulders barely move, “I was busy. Keeping myself busy, I think. To avoid thinking about…” you trail off and your gaze slips from her face as you stare at your reflection in the dark of her tv screen. It’s probably just your rotten mind, but you swear your eyes are emitting a subtle glow. When your words don’t return to you Julia lowers herself to the couch.

“It’s alright,” she hushes, “You don’t have to continue.” You sigh and lean against her completely, resting your head upon the solidness of a broad shoulder as you close your eyes.

“I’m so tired Jules.” She strokes your hair and you feel her shift, leaning forwards before an arm wraps around your shoulders.

You hear a click as a sound fills the apartment and when you open your eyes you see the scenes of an old movie playing upon the tv.

“It’ll be some background noise,” Julia tells you before she starts to move again. Lifting one leg up and trying to squeeze it behind your back, you shuffle forwards as she stretches the limb across the length of the couch, “Here,” she says and you turn your head to fix her with a wry smile, “Not like that!” She laughs and wraps her arms around you, drawing you into her as she leans backwards into the couch. You rest your cheek against her sternum and turn onto your side as you listen to the steady thumping of her heart. You watch as she lifts her other leg onto the couch to keep you from rolling off and now you are confined within her limbs, kept safe by the presence of her body, “Sleep Annie,” she whispers as she trails her fingers feather-light down your back, “I’ll be right here.”

And that’s enough.

You don’t fight it when your eyes start to close and the tendrils of sleep ensnare your mind and drag you down into the dark.

+++++

In the depths of sleep you find yourself somewhere familiar. You used to come here often with them both. The diner, the dumpster of which Julia found you in the first time you ever set your eyes on her. The first place you ever sat down to eat as a group. The place you’re sitting in right now.

The scene seems far more solid than it ever has, due to your fatigue perhaps? You have a sense, a terrible feeling however that that isn’t it. That it’s because Julia just had to remind you of what today was. But you think your mind knew all along. Somewhere deep down, buried amongst the memories of your daily routine. You don’t have a calendar for a reason but it seems that the incident has been imprinted onto your soul and are you really surprised at that?

A bell chimes out signaling that someone else has entered the establishment and you frown as you turn in your seat, only to see the door swing shut with no one in sight. Still, you keep on staring until the world past the windows starts to morph into a view that has fear spiking through your chest. You spin back around and almost fall out of the booth in surprise as an all too familiarly freckled face stares back at you with a wide and toothy grin.

“Anathema?”

“Miss me?” she grins. You close your eyes and rub your hands over your face. You don’t need this. Not now. Not today. Not with other memories oh so close to the surface.

“You know I do,” you confess in a moment of weakness and when you look back at her the smile has fallen to be replaced by an expression of guilt.

“I’m sorry,” she says and you laugh.

“You’re sorry?” you reply, the absurdity of it all shaping your mouth into a grin, “I should be the one apologizing to you!” The brief moment of mania passes as you breathe out, “It’s my fault you’re dead after all.”

“Don’t say that Annie. Please don’t say that.” She sounds like she’s pleading and you can’t look at her, “It’s no one’s fault but that things’.” You watch her hands sizzle as she clenches them into fists and you lean away, an unease making its home in your stomach.

“I held you back because I was getting a migraine. A fucking migraine!” you spit out in anger and she tilts her head, smile going sad as her orange curls bounce around her cherub face.

“I’m sorry.”

“Stop apologizing!” you shout and your voice echoes through the diner, the world seeming to shake along with your unjust anger. She flinches, jerking her hands back across the table and onto her lap as her eyes flit away from you. You wince, your face pulling into a grimace as you reach for her across the wooden surface, “I just…” you trail off, “I don’t know what this is.”

“What do you mean?” she asks, still not facing you.

“This place, this situation, these strange meetings cooked up by a mind on the brink.”

“Maybe it’s your guilty conscience?” your frown as she meets your gaze head on, something dangerous sparking behind those green eyes.

“I… Maybe. Shit.” You bury your hands into your hair as you drop your head, “I wish I had done something more,” you mumble at the table, “I wish I had stopped you. I wish we had never gone inside that fucking building.” Your fingers are like a vice on the back of your skull, “You were my best friend.” Your voice cracks as your face warms, “And now the only time I see you is in my dreams when my brain and body are so fucked that I struggle to wake up at all.”

“I know. I know.” Her voice sounds garbled and you sniff, blinking back tears, “And I am sorry Annie. I’m sorry you had to see that.” Her words sound strained and as you hear the tell-tale sound of her acid eating away at the table you think you were wrong to assume it was emotion that had taken control of her voice, “I never wanted you to see that.”

DON’T LOOK

The voice screams in the back of your head but you are powerless in this mindscape, your hands dropping to the table with a muted thud, hardly heard over you struggling to breathe. Your head moves slowly, so slowly, to look up at your friend and a shock of fear so potent you feel your heart stop, floods through your veins.

Acid eating away at her hands. The smell of rot and iron heavy in the air.

Not again. Please.

She’s raising her hands towards her face and your brain is screaming at you to do something.

Do something.

DO SOMETHING!!!

You lunge forwards and take a hold of her wrists like you wish you had all those years ago.

“Themmy stop! Please!” You’re pleading, crying. You can feel tears roll down your cheeks and you watch as the image of your hands shimmers like a mirage from skin and scars, to gloves of turquoise and grey, “Please stop.”

“I can’t.” Moving still, even though you are tugging with all your strength, “You can’t help me.”

“Why?!” you croak. Keep pulling. Keep holding. Even though the scent of death envelops you like a blanket in winter.

“Because you didn’t save me then.” Her arms slip from your grasp like you weren’t even holding on. Because you weren’t. You hadn’t. She’s right, “I never wanted you to see me die.” You watch in horror, frozen on the spot just like you had been and the world around you begins to split at the seams, visions of a dark hallway peeking through the cracks.

You’re helpless. Useless. And all you can do is watch as she grasps her face with her hands.

You’ve had years of new memories, good and bad, to try block out the sound of acid chewing away at flesh.

You should never have bothered.

She doesn’t even scream as her eyes pop and her skin sloughs off her skull, the bone shiny and white and not at all like it had been. But all you can focus on is the rancid smell of burning meat and the fact that she is still seated and her mouth is still moving, still trying to talk despite her tongue now sitting on the table before you.

And you can hear her.

Even though your mind is screaming at you to wake up.

Her words sound like dry grass and ash beneath boots.

“I never wanted to die.”

/////

You wake with an abruptness you didn’t think possible.

A desperate cry of her name flies from your mouth as you clamber to your feet, reaching for a figure no longer present. Your heart thunders an unsteady rhythm in your chest and you’re sweating enough that you hair sticks to your forehead and you clothes lay plastered against your skin. Your feet are rooted to the ground and your vision flickers in time with you roiling stomach.

A voice speaks up behind you and you can’t make out the words but you can’t turn, won’t turn. Don’t look. There’s a shimmer to the air and a heat at your back and you heave in desperate breaths to inflate your struggling lungs but it’s no use.

The room shifts and slides, changing right in front and all around before solidifying as a scene that causes a wheeze of a whimper to leave you. The apartment shrinks into focus, the carpet a dirty brown beneath your feet but this can’t be real. You know this can’t be real. You know. You know. (Do you?) But you’re panicking. You know the signs. Trembling body, shaking hands, head full of noise and unable to focus.

You need to move but there’s a window in the way.

The glass cracks, spiderweb lines spreading from a focal point created by something you can’t see.

You can see your reflection however.

And it doesn’t belong to you.

Snaking cables and inky darkness and something moving, sliding its way through the black and if you look down you can see the crack in the pavement four floors below. The smell of rot and antiseptic is overpowering and there’s a hand on your back, just between your shoulders blades and you fall forwards into nothing-

Your hands are buried in the shag rug of Julia’s living room, fingers curled and gripping it like a lifeline as you empty your stomach of its contents all over the designer pattern. Not much comes up, you don’t think you’ve eaten for at least a day but still the bile burns your throat and lips and stains the throw a lovely shade of yellow. There’s a figure besides you and a hand in the middle of your back and you have to remind yourself of where you are to keep from flinching away at the contact. You manage. Barely.

You dry heave and retch until there’s nothing left for you to do but sit back on your haunches as you wipe the back of your hand across your mouth and stare at the puddle soaking into the fibers. The shape at your side vanishes only to return a few moments later, warm hands handing you a cool glass which you take gratefully between your shaking ones. You close your eyes briefly as you swallow back any remnants before you bring the glass to your lips to wash the rest away. You drain the water in one go, alternating between gasps of breath and swallowing down air as the glass is pried from your fingers. You close your eyes again and the world stops spinning long enough for you to feel Julia slip a hand into one of your own.

“S’rry about the rug,” you choke on the stretched laugh that forces itself up your throat. She doesn’t take the bait.

“You’re not well Annie.”

“Tell me something I don’t know…” you grumble, “It looks worse then it is.” When you look to the side she stares back with an eyebrow raised so high it almost disappears into her hairline, “Physically I’m fine. I just haven’t slept in 3 days and, well, that’s about the time when hallucinations tend to start.”

“Jesus Annie. Maybe you should move your appointment with Doctor Finch forwards?”

Your fingers twitch, “… Maybe,” you concede, “But I’m more after an immediate solution, unless you want me to paint your furniture some more?” you smirk and she huffs, a flicker of a smile brightening her features just a touch.

“I think I still have some sleeping pills lying around somewhere.”

Knowing her they’ll be strong ones. They should knock you out deep enough that not even the nightmares will be able to dig their greasy fingers into you. You nod and let her help you to your feet. The tv is off now, the remote discarded on the floor and you almost step on it as you flop down onto the couch. She leaves you again, footsteps soft as she heads into depths of her apartment and you hunch forwards with a groan, placing your elbows on your knees as you bury your face in your hands. How mortifying. You’re thankful that the smell of bile is almost imperceptible though you still swallow back your nausea as you hear the tap in the kitchen run briefly before Julia returns.

“Here.”

The couch dips besides you and you sit up, one hand reaching for the refilled glass while the other turns palm up, allowing her to deposit the pills into your waiting grasp. You swallow both at the same time, flushing them away with water before placing the half-empty glass back on the table in front of you.

“Thanks.”

“No problem.”

Silence falls but as you look to her face to find her features shifting and mouth twisting you know there’s something on her mind.

“I can’t help unless you say something. Can’t read your mind remember?” you chuckle.

“Do you want to talk about it?” You go rigid and snap your gaze away as you clench you hands in your lap. Julia laughs quietly, “What a stupid question. Of course you don’t.” You smirk and your hands unfurl as you straighten out the fabric of your pants, “Can I ask you a question at least?” she asks.

“Might not answer it, but sure.”

“Do you dream about her often?” The question is soft, hesitant. And yet you still tense up, the scent of death reasserting itself over anything else. You blow out a breath, push those thoughts, that smell (those sounds) from your mind as you try pull your shields a little tighter, “Annie?” a hand on your own and you can’t look at her.

“Yeah I do.”

“I’m sorry.” That makes you laugh.

“That’s what she always says.” The smile on your face is as fake as your sobriety and you lean back into the couch as you close your eyes. Julia nestles against your side, knees touching and your mind begins to drift along the waves of static noise afforded by her proximity. You can feel yourself relax, thoughts fleeing your mind and after a long while you speak again, “I watched her die Julia.” And you know that no amount of talking will ever help you get over it.

“And I watched you die,” her words are hollow but she squeezes your hand.

She knows what its like, the feelings, the grief of it all. But the difference is that for her you came back. Sure you came back wrong, broken and hurting but you’re still alive aren’t you? Her heartache will still be there, you know, for the person you used to be. For the person you’re trying so hard to return to. But you’ll never truly get to hear Themmy’s laugh again, to hear her make another joke or to plot another shenanigan. Your sorrow is a part of you as much as the orange that stains your skin and for that reason you know it will never leave.

You don’t realize you’re starting to drift off until a stray touch to your cheek has your eyes opening when you never knew you had closed them.

“Come on.” Julia’s voice is soothing as she takes your hand and helps you stand, helps you stumble down the hall and through the doorway to her bedroom. You would protest but you’re falling asleep on your feet and her bed is softer anyways. You sit on the edge of the covers as she bends to take your shoes off and you take the opportunity to run your hands through her hair.

“M’ glad you’re deciding to grow it out,” you slur, words heavy in your mouth as she slips one runner off and places it to the side, “Should let me braid it sometime.” Your other foot is free and you wiggle your toes as she chuckles.

“You’d really do that?” she speaks as you remove your hands from her mane, shuffle up further onto the bed and slip under the covers.

“Yeah. I always loved to braid your hair. It’s so soft and smooth.” You smile lazily up at her as you rest your head on a pillow that must be stuffed with clouds for how soft it is. She stands at the bed side and your happiness turns dour as you look into her eyes, framed by grey above and wrinkles in the corners. You distantly wonder if you’ll get old enough to look the same. You reach up and cup her face in your hands, smoothing your thumbs over her dimpled cheeks as she smiles down at your frown, “When did you get so old…” you mumble, a hitch to your voice and she squeezes her hands over yours.

“That’s just life unfortunately.” She smiles with that crooked tilt of her lips you love so much and you pull her down towards your face to trap her in a kiss. A ruse she seems happy to be tricked by if the sigh she lets out is any indication.

She pulls away when your hands fall slack against her face and she places your arm back upon the sheets. She looks worried as she turns to leave the room and through half-lidded eyes you watch her pause in the doorway, look back over her shoulder and flash you a thin smile.

“Te amo cariño. Duermas bien,” she whispers, dimming the lights to a soft glow before she steps out, leaving the door slightly ajar as she disappears from your sight. The call of sleep washes over you like waves lapping against the shore and you can barely keep your eyes open. Until you realize you don’t need to. And you allow yourself to be washed out to sea.

+++++

You awaken slowly, eyes opening to the smell of food wafting in through the cracked door and accompanied by the sound of singing coming from somewhere in the apartment. You yawn as you sit up, stretching your arms above your head before rubbing the last traces of sleep from your eyes as you pull back the covers. You swing your legs out of the bed and onto the carpeted ground and you bend to touch your toes before straightening back up with a sigh and a smile. You feel more rested than you have in a very long time and your shields no longer feel brittle and non-existent. You’ll have to grab the name of those pills.

You pad towards the door opening it slowly and turning the light off as you step out into a brightly lit hallway. The singing continues and you realize there’s no music playing to sing along to as you turn a corner to see Julia standing at the stove. You don’t want to break this moment and so you quietly take a seat and rest your arms upon the benchtop laid with condiments as you watch her cook. Layers of dark waves spill down her back and you remember what you said last night, sighing as you soak up the heaven-like ambience that you seem to have landed yourself in.

“Morning! Pancakes?”

You startle, rattling the stool as she turns around. You didn’t realize she had heard you.

“Uh yeah. Yes please,” you smile and she slides the flat disc onto a plate before placing it down in front of you, “How long did I sleep for?” you ask as you drown the breakfast in thick syrup before cutting a large chunk off and shoving it into your mouth.

“Almost 15 hours,” comes the reply as she turns her back to you and returns to cooking.

“Damn. Well, I needed it.”

“You certainly did,” she chuckles. You wipe the syrup from your chin and turn in your seat, leaning the stool backwards as you peer into the living room to see that the space beneath the coffee table is bare. You grimace.

“I’ll buy you a new rug.”

“Annie you don’t have to!” she laughs as she turns once more with her own cake plated up and comes to next to you.

“C’mon Jules. You’re telling me you wouldn’t love to have something I’ve bought you displayed in your apartment?” you raise a brow.

“You got me,” she snickers as she starts to devour her breakfast. You finish yours quickly, getting to your feet once done and heading to the bathroom, “Where are you going?” Julia asks with faint amusement in her voice.

“Just wait!” you throw the reply over your shoulder as you enter the tiled room, grab a hair tie from where it rests near the edge of the sink (no wonder she keeps losing them), and return to the kitchen. She’s still eating, still watching you as you sit back down and motion for her to turn around.

She does without question after taking the last bite of her food and you reach for her hair, running your fingers through it to rid of any tangles before taking the length between your fingers and separating it into three. You hear her hum in content, sitting as still as she seems to be able to as you fold and twist and ignore the streaks of grey you uncover with your work. It’s nostalgic, reminding you of happier times and you find that the smile comes to your face with ease. Sooner than you’d like you’re finished and you loop the band at the end of the braid to keep your job from unravelling.

“There. Done.” You scoot back and watch as she reaches behind her, running her fingers along the bumps with such care that your heart thuds against your ribcage.

“Thank you.”

“No problem.”

She turns around on her stool and grins at you with shining eyes, “How do I look?”

You’re treated to a vision of her from her younger days. The same eyes and same smile but with skin unblemished, free of scars and wrinkles and missing all the signs of age that (although you’d never admit it) you’ve grown to love.

Your words get caught in your throat.

“Beautiful,” you reply as you smile back, “You look beautiful.”

#i do love writing angsty stuff #and i love the horror element to certain aspects of fallen hero #so ill make it worse whenever i can because its cool af #fallen hero #annie kane #julia ortega

12 notes · View notes

tunastime · 5 months

Note

🐑 established relationship, fluff, fridge horror

Tags: established relationship, fluff, fridge horror

Summary: There's a rule: Bdubs professes his loyalty, and that loyalty will always be without fault. It's the kind of rule saved for theatrics, for plays and monologues and minigames, rather than the bubble of desolation that is a death game. But Impulse takes it anyway. There's not much he can do about it--and not much he can say otherwise. His hand fits neatly around a watch that's stopped ticking. He's not sure when it stopped ticking. But he knows that he stopped liking the sound a long time ago.

On a quiet morning, sitting together, leaned up against him, Impulse asks Bdubs if he forgives him. When Bdubs asks him what for, he can't seem to find the words.

The watch sits heavy in his pocket, unmoving. The warm shape next to him sighs.

(fake fic ask game)

#YIPPEEE #i actually struggled with the fridge horror aspect #.. but it's something i want to try again! i think i would love writing horror actually #text #fics #ask meme #asks #anon

8 notes · View notes

ehlnofay · 11 months

Note

19 for the worldbuilding prompts + Torr?

the profound quiet of a small settlement at night

North Eastmarch is freezing cold all over, but it wears different outside the city than within.

Torr would never call Windhelm warm – not even in summer months, no matter how used to it they are – but what little heat it has it clings to with great determination. The walls huddle together, trapping the air so that it’s either still and muggy or a howling wind, like each close-knit house is breathing in tandem. The heat of the people run up and down its streets, blood through its knotted stone veins. The city is alive, an ecosystem unto itself; its snow, dark with footprints, runs sludgy down the roads; a fireplace is always burning somewhere.

Outside of the walls, surrounded by nothing but empty air and snow-laden trees, a slow-moving stream running with barely a burble – it feels dead, in contrast. Silent. Branches reach needle-sharp across the blue-black sky, the ground is gleaming white and undisturbed by anyone else’s footprints, and the nearest fire is the barely visible gleam of the Kynesgrove mining camp, up the hill and through the sporadic spindles of the trees. The breeze ghosts past Torr’s neck and whips the mud-stained snow into a flurry.

In the city, Torr’s comfortable sleeping almost anywhere – as comfortable as they ever get, anyway. Some of the buildings have great gaps under the porch where the snow can’t reach and no-one ever finds them; there’s places in the nooks of the walls, and sheds built into the side of the house that people don’t lock, and Torr knows a few people besides who don’t mind him kipping on their floor every now and again, as long as he doesn’t ask too often. The outside isn’t like that. There’s not many places to go. He’s lurking around Kynesgrove tonight – on his way back from a quick venture out to get some things done that pay better than running errands around the markets – and there aren’t many options. The inn, which he can’t afford – the mine, which would be warm but is very guarded – the miner’s encampment or someone’s house, both of which would most likely result in being chased off. Besides, there’s a performative element to meeting people, especially adults, in strange places, and Torr’s not in the mood to play to strangers. So much of his being is caught up in Windhelm’s grimy alleys, tangled in the hair and fingers of its discarded children; he doesn’t know how to be himself away from it all.

But they don’t have to, seeing as there’s the rickety old sawmill on the edge of a stream feeding into the harbour. It’s not bad, as shelter goes; no walls, so the wind rubs its fingers wraithlike down Torr’s cheeks and tangles them in his hair, but at least there’s a roof. It looks newly thatched, too, the floorboards free of rot, the water-wheel still chugging creakily along. There’s no wood to cut here, all the nearby surrounding trees too scraggy to be worth the bother. The only big ones are part of the grove up on the hill. There’s no point in keeping the mill running, but Torr is glad it is; he watches the distant firelight flickering through the scrub, and listens to the splashing of the wheel. It’s proof that people and the things they make do still exist – if not necessarily here.

It really feels dead, out in the cold, with the leafless trees and the wind that doesn’t even whisper. It always does. It’s a bit discomfiting, which is maybe why Torr doesn’t go on out-of-city endeavours as often as perhaps he could; but really, there’s not work out here enough to make it worth it. There’s always problems with bandits on the road, but Torr’s not a good enough fighter for bounty work; there’s collecting plants and things to sell Nurelion, but that’s easy enough to do on a day trip. (And, really, it’s more for Torr’s own enjoyment, besides. They never even venture far south enough to get to the sulphur pools, which is where the more interesting things grow.)

This trip, though, is an outlier. Unusually efficient. Just a quick job for Niranye, scouting a merchant’s cart on the road – almost definitely for something shady, but that’s not Torr’s business, and it was too much money too easy to turn down. And then – just earlier today, foraging out in the wilderness as best as Torr (a distinctly urban animal) knows how – they’d come across a giant’s corpse, stiff and white as the snow it lay in. Torr’s no master alchemist but they know the value of a cadaver when it comes to brewing alloys and admixtures, so they set to with their blunt-edged dagger and now they’ve got a sack full of what may as well be gold. (Long as it doesn’t start to rot before they can get Nurelion to preserve it, anyway.)

Torr’s going to be rolling in it when they get back to Windhelm. They could use that money for nearly anything – pay off a few things they borrowed, new warm things now that winter’s coming back strong, bedrolls, waterskins. Endless options – which, strangely, is more exciting than it is burdensome.

It’s all the sort of decision that would ordinarily feel life-or-death urgent but right now feels – not small. Not insignificant, not at all, but distant. A choice to be made at another time, by another person.

(Torr’s whole being belongs to Windhelm’s back streets. They’re someone else, away from it all.)

That’s the other thing about leaving the city, spending time in the discomfiting slow-paced ghost-world outside. It’s quiet. Torr sits surrounded by the wind in the trees, the lazy murmur of the stream, the creak of the water-wheel, and nothing else.

He’s been called a worrywart (mostly by Griss in a strop) but to tell the truth he doesn’t think that’s true. Torr doesn’t fuss for the sake of fussing, he just doesn’t like to leave things undone; can’t stop until he finds a solution. Out here, alone, in the empty cold, there are no solutions to find – same old problems back home, he knows, but no steps he can take at this time to right them. That’s never true while he’s in the city, so he can never stop thinking about it, every choice and action accompanied by a buzzing background chorus of everything else he really should be doing – that really should have been done by now – that should never have been left undone this long, what was he thinking? Everything is urgent when it’s doable. But here and now, there’s nothing to do.

So Torr sits hunched on the board floor of the ramshackle watermill, huddled among their heaps of bags and blankets, and thinks of nothing at all.

Not strictly true. They think of supper – haven’t eaten since an apple this morning, except for some snowberries they found around noon, and it’s been a long day. They nabbed some turnips from the garden of the Kynesgrove inn on their way to the mill. They’re fresh, if nothing else – also covered in dirt, so Torr rises reluctantly from their pile of stuff to crouch on the banks of the stream and dip the vegetables in to clean them off. It aches like hell, the frozen water turning their joints to ice – they almost drop the turnip they’re washing, so they scrub it as best they can with the frigid pad of their thumb and whip their hands out of the water soon as they’re able. They stick their fingers in their mouth to warm them back up.

Even after all that time spent warming up their hands, arraying all their belongings back around themself to conserve body heat, the turnips are still cold enough to hurt Torr’s teeth when he bites in. He eats them anyway, relishing a little in the unearthly silence and the aching of his lips and palms. They taste delicious.

With nothing else to do after, the gnawing of his stomach sated, he wraps himself in his shawl and stares up the hill at the camp’s fire until it goes out. The stars wink into brighter being. The wind whistles through the whip-thin branches of the trees. The water-wheel creaks.

Torr sleeps, but he feels like he hears it all – a silent observer, an echo, a beginning – until morning.

#I considered doing something with post-questline torr for this #but it would have been so fucking sad #and I didn't want to write something that was so fucking sad!#I'll post about torr after the horrors eventually but Not Today.#this was also initially supposed to be an exercise in writing something short that focused more on a distinctive atmosphere #than a scene or character study as most of my pieces are.#oops.#snowballed into an absolute monster of a ramble.#maybe sometime I'll use these prompts to write Actually Short pieces with more of a focus on the worldbuilding aspect...#would be good practice. everything I've written lately has been a thousand words minimum.#I could write about my minor characters or npcs with it too... yeah I think I'll do that at some stage #but. anyway. I quite like this piece as a sort of study #I fucking love writing characters who are having a nice time. with just a hint. just a whisper. of the problems #I enjoyed putting in the reference to the alchemical giant's toes especially because that is an allusion no-one but me understands #to a line in one of my very bad very early pieces on torr #it's not well written but I loved that bit because it's such a wonderful microcosm of the way torr is even before the murder cult thing #Yes he's the busiest most hardworking caretaking boy in the world taking trips into the wilderness (comparatively) to feed his family #and Yes his first instinct on seeing a corpse is to cut it up and sell it for parts #(he's done this to human bodies too but only in extremely specific circumstances. the risk of legal repercussions is too great otherwise)#I'll make a post rambling sometime about torr's ethical system because I'm so obsessed with them and their unhinged point of view #Anyway #done rambling #my writing #fay writes #oc tag #torr #the elder srolls #tes #skyrim #tesblr

12 notes · View notes

alteredphoenix · 8 months

Text

Thinking about that one YT video that goes in-depth about liminal spaces in video gaming by sorbino, and how people that view them fall into one of two categories: those that are endowed with nostalgia and the sense that they've been there before (regardless as to whether or not they were born in the era those spaces originated from), and those that feel the looming dread and fear and the hint of otherness, that sensation of wrongness that scrapes along the surface of your brain just looking upon them.

I guess I would fall into the first camp, although not so much with the familiarity and nostalgia; it's more like I can relax and put my guard down when I see them. It reminds me how, as silly and goofy some of these places used to look, they at least had heart to them. Not like today, how you'd look at them from your window out of the car you're in and see the buildings that once were colorful and bombastic are now just redesigned to have the same cold, sterile, corporate aesthetic.

(That's a deeper dive I can get into that sort of goes outside of the bounds of this topic, but I think you get where I'm going with it.)

#tbh this was brought on by an idea i had for a story #that incorporates aspects of the '90s aesthetics while maintaining its own fantasy setting #things inspired by the drum 'n' bass and house mix beats that were prevalent in PSX games #and liminal spaces is a feature that's integral to the early era of gaming #but when i read that liminal spaces invoke horror in some ppl #i'm like '...okay how do i incorporate liminal spaces WITHOUT scaring off my readers?'#b/c i want them to have a good time. i don't want to give them a bad time lmao #my 2nd thought was 'how do i incorporate the element of liminal spacing in a written narrative?'#b/c liminal spaces are a visual feature not a written one #idk it's a weird thought to have. but all my thought processes go down a weird rabbit hole #i've been wanting to use this idea for a while. in a NaNoWriMo thing #i think i would have to do some more research & messing around in order to make it work #and nail the landing before i actually get around to writing it #but i always loved messing around with tired yet popular tropes and putting my own spin on them #i can't pass up a good challenge for my spicy writerly brain #liminal spaces #yeah why not i'll tag it. see what you all think

2 notes · View notes

distressedgold · 2 years

Text

Someone: Heh heh! I have developed this machine/ability to read minds! Now I can find out what Belos is up to and if he can really talk to the Titan!

Someone: *activates it*

Belos: *just random thoughts or empty air while needing to process something because he’s trying to ignore the Titan*

The Titan: *Dr. Phil meme Voice* OPEN THE DOOR OR I’M GOING TO... THROW ROCKS THROUGH YOUR WINDOW YOU DUMB WH-

Someone: What the hell?!?

Belos: ....What?

#mun being a dork; ignore her #Show me a hero; I will write you a tragedy (Emperor Belos)#Oh you'll love my Toxic Love (The Titan)#sorry I just thought of this and.... XD #I'll take this eldritch parasite and cosmic horror aspect seriously some day I promise

8 notes · View notes

Last Seen Blogs

thekingoforgasm0

Relaxa e goza.

perhaps-perhaps-not

Perhaps. Perhaps not.

teunip

thekingoforgasm0

Relaxa e goza.

atrengsinx