wiredaughter
song of songs 8:6
♡ a heart that hurts is a heart that works ♡
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inspired by @alastcrs's chaggie comic, a sequel of sorts XD
Vaggie: "Sweetie, tell me you didn't give Sir Pentious dating advice."
Charlie: "No? I didn't?"
Vaggie: "Then babe what did you do?"
Charlie: "I just showed you off a little~"
Vaggie: (groaning) "The picture thing? The, have you seen my girlfriend joke? Again?"
Charlie: "Yep! Why?"
Vaggie: "We have to go save Pentious from Cherri Bomb."
Charlie: "Why would we need to- oh no. Oh, noooo-"
Vaggie: "Oh fucking yes."
-elsewhere and in danger-
Sir Pentious: (at random sinner) "Have you sssseen Miss Cherri Bomb~? Ssshe-"
Cherri Bomb: "DUDE WHATE THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING!?"
Sir Pentious: "-ah, I am, apprecsssiating you-?"
Cherri Bomb: "BY HELPING THE BOUNTRY HUNTERS FIND ME???"
Sir Pentious: "What- no! No I only, I wassss merely-"
Cherri Bomb: "THAT'S MY WANTED POSTER, DICK HEAD!"
Sir Pentious: "Well. Ah. Yesss."
Cherri Bomb: "GIVE IT HERE SO I CAN BURN IT"
Sir Pentious: (clutching wanted poster to chest) "Pleassse Cherri, noooo! It issssss, the only quality photo of you that I possessss-!"
Cherri Bomb: "Then just ASK me for another one like a normal person! Or stalk me like a normal creep! ANYTHING THAT DOESN'T END WITH WITH ME STUFFED AND MOUNTED ON SOME OVERLORD'S FUCKING WALL!!! Like, fuck- do you KNOW how much important shit I've blown up???"
Sir Pentious: "Oh yessss! You are very accomplissshed!" (beaming) "The weaponsss casssche last from year was essspecssially beautiful! All thossse, ssssecondary explosionssss...~"
Cherri Bomb: "YOU'RE gonna be a secondary explosion if you don't hand that poster over Right Now."
Sir Pentious: "Erm, before I do ssso... might I humbly requessst a replasscement photo of-"
Cherri Bomb: "No." (lights fuse) "Let go or go sky high with it."
Sir Pentious: "AH-!"
Charlie: (running) "Pen!" (skids to stop and grabs vaggie) "Holy shit that's a bomb- PEN JUST LET IT GO!!!"
Vaggie: "Pentious drop and take cover! It's not worth it!"
Sir Pentious: "But- sssshe ISSS worth-"
Cherri Bomb: "Bye bitch." (tosses bomb) (Runs)
Sir Pentious: "Ah, ssh-"
KABLOOMY
Vaggie: "...."
Charlie: "......"
Vaggie: "...we're gonna add self-worth sessions and healthy relationship boundary workshops to the hotel activities list, yeah?"
Charlie: "Oh yes. Definitely."
(splat) (splatter) (Splotch)
Charlie: "After, um, after Pen's collected himself a bit."
Vaggie: "Yeah... Maybe hold back on the 'i love my girlfriend' jokes around him too?"
Charlie: "....I'll." (pained grimace) "Try."
Vaggie: "All I ask, babe." (smooches her cheek) "C'mon. Let's gather up our snake man and head home."
Charlie: (sighs) "It would've worked if he'd just had a better picture-"
Vaggie: "Charlie."
Charlie: "They're cute together! He's all over her- it's adorable!"
Vaggie: "He's all over the street right now."
Charlie: "She used one of her better bombs on him this time." (picks up an arm and part of pentious's tail) "That has to mean something, right??"
Vaggie: "More work for us."
Charlie: "Hmm~ I bet you they kiss before the next extermination~"
Vaggie: "Sweetie." (grabs other arm and the torso) "If they kiss before one of them DIES I'll count it as your win."
Charlie: "No other time limit?"
Vaggie: "None."
Charlie: "And the prize if I win...?"
Vaggie: "Extra kisses. And I'll join your Cherri x Pentious group chat."
Charlie: "DEAL!"
Vaggie & Charlie: (shake pentious's hands over it)
-one kiss and death later-
>user (SpearOfSappho) has joined group BOMBSIRWAY FOREVR!!!
SpearOfSappho: hey
cute'n'cuddlycapricorn: ;-;
SpearOfSappho: charlie im so sorry
SpearOfSappho: would the extra kisses help?
cute'n'cuddlycapricorn: ! THEY KISSED AND NO ONE EVEN TOOK ANY PICS OF IT!!!!
SpearOfSappho: oh
cute'n'cuddlycapricorn: ANGEL x DEMON EMEMIES TO FRIENDS TO LOVERS SLOW BURN STAR CROSSED ROMANCE 100k LETS FUCKING GOOOOO!!!!!!!!
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i am politely begging u to pretty pretty plz write more gooseberry u could write her watching paint dry and i would cry tears of joy. i lov yr writing
thank you sm! she's really one of my favourite characters to write even though she's also really complicated ♡ ill have So Much free time this week so i might drop another dressmaker!oc oneshot!
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i promised you pain ♡ then got myself in the hospital for a week and looking forward to a months long recovery.
short uncharacteristic personal post about why i haven't beej keeping up with the prompts (ps. i had Two Surgeries omg) but i will when i go back to my own place as im staying at some relatives' and dont have my computer
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On The Level
alternative prompt: i love you ♡ 2nd person pov ♡ john doe×you ♡ character study ♡ ao3
The first time John tells you, you give him a small shove with your shoulder, spitefully playful. A part of you still expects him to take it back or say something smart, even used as you should be to his devotion.
‘I love you.’
It’s constant, like a wave that won’t stop breaking against your shores. And what are you to say to that? He says it like a prayer, like a vow, like a fact. And you’re so used to hearing it like a lie, to saying it like a lie. But he loves you, and you believe it. When you wake up to him staring at you with glossy eyes, when you get back from your shift at the petrol station and he’s just standing by the door, when he tags along and cannot stop holding your hand even as you tell him you’ll get into trouble. He cares, you think, but he loves you.
It’s a disconcerting thought. One you didn’t think you’d have to face, when you let him in. You were willing enough, tired of yourself and curious to know when he’d get fed-up, spooked or just plain bored of you. Except he doesn’t. It’s not the initial demonstrations that put you off your balance, you know those well; how two people gaslight each other into thinking they’re the ones, but he’s earnest as all hell with it. And you’ve got amazing turns of phrase, are able to make anyone fall at your feet with your lies, but that’s nothing to the way his voice cracks in the middle of his not entirely coherent rants, overcome with emotion. Because he loves you.
You don’t reply. Initially, his fated lovers spiel hadn’t seemed worthy of your acting and, once you understood, you hadn’t had the nerve to lie. To think it might not be a lie. He loves you, loves you, loves you as you lose your temper and lash out, as you scream and kick and try to fight him and cry yourself hoarse, the love in his eyes just eats at you as you try to get whatever it is that makes them burn with such affection.
He loves you, and you must love him too. Should, would love him too if you were capable. The worst part is he doesn’t know what you’re withholding from him, he doesn’t seem to. He loves you; aloof, raging, inconstant, it doesn’t seem to matter to him as long as it's you. It doesn't matter if you love him, compared to that. However you might, it's not enough. Still, you tell yourself as you hide your face in the crook of his neck, maybe one day you'll be able to say it back.
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alternative prompt: please
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Batman (Movies - Nolan)
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Jonathan Crane/Original Female Character(s)
Characters: Jonathan Crane, Original Female Character(s)
Additional Tags: Coercion, march of pain, please, Character Study, of sorts nothing happens much, idk - Freeform, Unhealthy Relationships
Series: Part 6 of i promised you pain ♡
Summary:
Crane’s not at work the next day and, as hysteric as the thought is, you feel guilty. You remember shooting him up with your experimental antidote, running him through a quick Glasgow test which he only passed in the loosest terms, and throwing him through his front door. Sure, you think now, maybe you should have had the decency to get him to his bed if nothing else, but since the main reason he wasn’t able to do it himself is the poison he created, you cut yourself some slack.
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day 5: anxiety
Fight or Flight
john doe×bruce wayne ♡ hurt/comfort ♡ pov second person ♡ anxiety attack ♡ preslash ♡ ao3
Saturdays. He always comes earlier on Saturdays, so you make sure to clear your scrapbooking away on time. You mean to surprise him with it, but it’s not yet ready, so by the time four in the afternoon rolls around your desk is empty in the least suspicious possible way. So four o’clock comes, and goes. It’s only natural, he’s a busy man. You pace your room, not unhappy but ticked off some; lately you find yourself missing him and then recriminating yourself for missing him. It’s a cycle that only works you up.
By four twenty three your desk has a couple of notebooks lying on it, and a textbook. Idle on your wait, you’ve created a likely decoy for a man that’s not here. You exhale, falling back into bed, He’ll be here. He said so last time. He’ll be here. You pace, repeat those words to yourself like a mantra, one you can’t stop poking holes into. For all his words, his intentions, he’s got no good reason to be here. After all you’ve done to each other, even if he’s put it behind him it doesn’t tell you he hasn’t put you behind, too. People move on.
You’ve thought yourself into a cloud of despair and chased it away a couple times before he finally makes it, at fifteen to five. He calls your name before opening the door, and you’re on your feet in an instant, smiling. He's here, and it's like nothing can get you down now. He’s apologetic, just got back to Gotham and came as soon as he could, and you appreciate that. You appreciate that, you do. You really must be the bane of his life, getting him back to the city in the middle of a potential merger. He doesn’t accuse it, instead getting you to explain what you’ve got up to in occupational therapy, and you manage to shove those thoughts to the back of your head where they belong.
It’s not until his phone rings and he excuses himself because he absolutely has to take this, giving your arm a quick touch before he exits for the hallway, that you find yourself unable to keep them away. He’s got a perfectly okay life without you, you’re nothing but a remnant of a past he’s let go of with no problem. You’re holding him back. The realisation is like a blade to your chest, and you feel your heartbeat picking up. You’re keeping him from the life his friends, his real friends, want him to live. You fold on yourself as you feel nausea raise up your throat. You need to tell him it’s alright, you need to tell him you’ll be fine. Will you be fine? You need him, more than that, you want him with you, in ways you've got no right to want of him. No right, and still the want eats at you in hysteric bursts. Three things you can see, you remember from therapy, things you can see. You see your unfinished game of cards on the table, you see… your own shaking hands and you see him.
‘John? Are you alright?’
He’s here, he’s done with his phone call and he’s here, seeing you freak out over nothing, and this is not what you planned, and… he’s asked you a question, he did. You shake your head before you realise what you’re doing, then nod hesitantly. There’s movement on your peripheral vision, and he’s crouching in front of you. Close. Too close. You wish he’d get even closer. Closer.
‘Just breathe with me, will you?’ His arm moves up and down like marking a tempo and weird as it is it does help to follow its rhythm. You grab his hand midair and pull it to your chest in a movement that feels as instinctual as a reflex, whine low on your throat. ‘I’m sorry.’
He squeezes your fingers, bringing his other hand to cup your face. ‘You don’t need to apologise-’
‘I do.’ Your voice is quiet but firm, and you’re standing up to get away because you’re not going to be able to say your piece this way. ‘I need to, because I’m making your life more difficult, and I made you cut your trip short, and even though you keep trying to be my friend I cannot be the kindof person you should be friends with, and I never will! Because you keep trying and I cannot be-’ You cut yourself short when he catches your hands where you’re throwing them in the air in wild gestures, bring them down to a relaxed hold between your bodies. You sigh, concluding; ‘I should be better.’
‘I don’t need you to be. I don’t need you to be anything but what you are.’ You give him a sullen look and he, unbelievably, smiles. ‘Do you feel like I should be something else?’
You shake your head no. ’That’s different, though, you’ve got no reason to. I ruined everything. I ruin everything.’
‘Don’t I?’ His thumb slides over the raised scar on the back of your hand where his batarang went through. ‘I hurt you, I lied to you.’
The memory of the violence settles something inside of you, and you finally meet his gaze. The sadness in it takes you aback. ‘I tried to kill you.’
‘I know. We’re both changing, but that’s only natural. I don’t need you to be anything but what you are.’
His level voice leeches your anxiety away, and you’re stumbling forward to hide your face in his chest. His arms come to wrap around you and you’ve missed him so much. You allow yourself to acknowledge that, even if you can’t get the words through your mouth. You hope you’re being evident enough without having to voice it.
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Dating John Doe Would Be Like This:
A/N: So I'm just starting to write for slashers, creepypastas and other dark yanderes like Doe here. Requests are open for hcs and imagines, but I won't write smut 🙃
(The image below isn't mine.) Enjoy!
Warnings: Unhealthy and obsessive loving behaviour, mentions of violence, emotional manipulation
👁• Well, you've gotten his attention immediately, just for being you. Congratulations! Doe's never going to let you go now. You're stuck in a neverending loop of coming across him until you accept his love and let him seep into your life.
👁• John Doe loves everything about you. Every little thing. He wants to know as much as he can about who you are, your deepest secrets... privacy? Personal space? Never heard of them.
👁• He is very, very obsessive, no matter what you're doing. You could be simply watching TV, and Doe's not watching the channel at all, because you're so close together, as you're supposed to be, and he can't help the repeated swooning thoughts of how he just love love loves you!!! John also follows you to where you work, at the gas station, and will stare at you lovingly while you work and help out when you ask him to for the whole day. If you're shy or uneasy by the constant staring and attention, it only makes Doe more motivated to keep doing it, because the blushing and avoiding meeting his eye is so cute!!
👁• His main love languages are physical touch and words. I mean, his words are usually just giddy rambles and crazed staring in between the sentences, but his physical touch is practically suffocating. Whenever Doe can touch you, he will be, because he's very clingy with you. Now that you're together, he's not about to let you go, and the public will have to see that when you're out and about and your hand's gripped tightly in his, or an arm wrapped firmly around your waist.
👁• He's also a big hugger and cuddler, but you'll frequently have to remind him that he's holding you too tightly or that you can't concentrate on whatever you're doing while he's right up in your face and watching your every move. His cuddles include him burying his face into the crook of your neck and breathing your scent in, because it's completely unique to you, and anything to do with you is perfect in his mind. John Doe also loves kissing you, because you taste so sweet, and he could get high off the feeling because you're so addictive!
👁• John's also extremely protective. If anyone attempts to flirt with you or becomes too friendly for his liking, they won't last long at all. He could make a horrifying expression to make the weaker ones back off, but then again, could kill them, even in front of you to make a point. "Darling, why are you crying? They don't mean anything to you, now do they? Ohh, but you are cute when you're scared-"
👁• He doesn't have much of a social life, so if you do... well, that's a tricky one. Doe might give in to your sweet pleas for him to join you and your friends to go out and get drinks fr a couple of hours, or he could emotionally manipulate you into staying. "You- you're leaving me here, by myself?! Why? Don't you love me...? But you love them more than you love me. Then stay here, please??"
👁• If you're easily disturbed by blood, then you'll have to tell John not to leave you such gory gifts. He'll start getting you little things that you personally like instead of violent trinkets and stuff like that.
👁• He reminds you he loves you every day, every hour, and if you don't say it back, Doe will pout and give you big sad eyes until you do. If you tell him you love him randomly tone day before he does, he'll be over the moon, and clingier than ever.
👁• John Doe will do anything for you, and I mean anything. He'll be anything you want, too, but he might just cry if you tell him you prefer him looking as he naturally does and that he doesn't need to change for you. Any hobbies you have are now his, because he wants to share and bond over everything he can with you. It's only fair, right?
👁• He's not completely above brainwashing you into agreeing with him and seeing things from his perspective, but that's only if it's something big, especially if you somehow ignore him. But Doe prefers your responses to be from the heart.
👁• John doesn't really like it when you choose to have a bath or shower too often. He's come to understand that you do need to shower because you want to keep clean, but he'll insist on you getting unscented soaps and things.
👁• He adores it when you help paint his nails, and he'll do the same for you! He's surprisingly steady and careful when he's concentrated and not distracted by how completely beautiful you look. Doe also loves it when you wear his hoodies, or match his aesthetic and colours by wearing black and red. "Look, my love, we're matching!! We're just made for each other, aren't we? Aren't we?!"
👁• His home is a mess, and you can try cleaning some of the junk up when you're over, though it's not a great idea to examine the blood-stained bits and pieces buried within the chaos. So, it's better to hang out at your place. Doe also likes it when you brush his hair, even though it'll never stay down and straight and smooth. Still, he loves the feeling and attention, and will soak it all up with a lovestruck grin.
👁• The symbol on his t-shirt constantly changes with his mood, which is a good way to keep track of his feelings. It's almost always love and adoration when he's around you, and he's around you most of the time, even if you can't spot him at first.
👁• All in all, he's not a bad boyfriend if you can take his clingy, obsessive loving nature and violent tendencies to any minor threats to you and your love life. John Doe's a pretty creepy guy, but he loves you to death, and in the end, everything he does is for you.
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day 4: selfinflicted ☆
Something Borrowed, Something Blue
diablero ♡ keta infante×lupe reina ♡ hurt/comfort ♡ whump ♡ ao3
Some scars are old, and some are new.
Keta knows pain. In herself and in others; she’s seen too much, been through too much, not to know when someone’s in pain. Not to want to do something about it, regardless of the circumstances. And so she follows Lupe as she retires to her chambers, Elvis’ memory and Mayaken’s plight and the whole entire world be damned. Her friend is in pain.
‘Keta Infante. You’ve saved the world, shouldn’t you be with your family now?’
‘Your scars.’ Keta shakes her head. ‘You move like they hurt, but I don’t think they did when you showed me.’
A wry smile curves Lupe’s full lips. ‘You do like to stare, diablera.’
Keta flushes despite herself. Unbalanced as she feels as she remembers kissing them, it’s not the time for that now. Steeling herself, she walks over to the taller woman. Lupe’s hand comes to rest on her shoulder, stopping her just a step away. She heeds, giving her a morose look. ‘Lupe…’
Lupe’s hand shifts to her neck, and she’s pulling her in for a kiss that’s as intoxicating as she’s come to expect from her. Her lips are demanding and soft on hers, and she goes willingly, arms coming to circle her waist as Lupe’s mouth parts for her, letting her in. Keta shudders, gets to keep her head and as fluidly as she knows how to, dares her hands up her back for the buttons in her blouse. Lupe sighs, gives her the same tense smile as she pulls away from her embrace.
‘Let me see.’ There’s an authority in her voice she’s still not entirely used to, but she uses it as best she can. ‘I want to see.’
For a moment she thinks Lupe will refuse. Coatlicue or not, the other woman is more experienced; and it’s her territory they’re in, but she just crosses her arms and turns around in invitation. Keta’s deft fingers undress her to reveal fresh wounds over the ones inflicted in her childhood, long deep cuts in a narrow crisscross over the gnarled skin where her wings were supposed to grow in.
‘You…’
‘Angels are implacable, Keta, I hoped you’d get your son back but I wasn’t betting on it and I… I thought maybe they would take a fake Key instead, in consideration for your efforts.’
‘You did this to yourself. You…’
‘I’m sorry about Mayaken.’
It’s not the first time someone’s told her, but it’s like the first time she’s heard it. The finality of the words, the shared grief. She forces her hands still with a nurse’s precision as she traces around the cuts, Lupe’s shoulders jerking minutely when her fingers ghost over the raised scars.
‘You did what you could to help us.’ Keta’s voice is muted by the tears she’s holding back. ‘This is something I’d have never asked of you.’
‘You didn’t need to ask. I thought, maybe it was what I was born for, being that it wasn’t to bring the angels back. I thought I could at least bring yours to you.’
The vulnerability of the words shakes Keta and her tears finally fall silently down her face. She exhales, she’s lost so much but she’s still alive for it. Lupe turns to face her when she misses her touch and her expression drops when she sees her.
‘There was no reason for you to know, since I didn’t succeed.’
‘Ay, of course I needed to know, Lupe.’ She sounds angry now, feeling too much like when she’s chastised Elvis for a rash decision, or lectured Nancy after she’s invited a particularly powerful demon in. But Lupe is not her brother or a misguided girl, she knew what she was doing and has a right to her own decisions, so she tones her voice down. ‘And I do now. I just want to help.’
The skin on Lupe’s back is so soft it makes the pain she’s been through seem more crude. Keta’s breath is light as her touch when she cleans the deep cuts, bandages them with the care of a medic and the piety of a lover. When she’s done she presses a kiss to the tattoo in the nape of her neck, where the angel sigil would have been had Lupe been the white key, and pretends she doesn’t hear the sob that leaves the other woman, instead wrapping herself around her body in a hold that seeps her tension away.
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the infante siblings' reaction to straight people is a whole mood
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Sick of the socially anxious, shy Will Graham retoric; this guy's anti-social and is a mistrustful prick. He sucks. He's rude on purpose. He barks. He bites. He spreads rabies.
"How does that make you feel?"
*scoff, "How does that make you feel?"
?????
"Tell me about your mother."
"Some lazy psychiatry, Dr. Lecter."
???????????
"Let's keep it professional." "I don't find you that interesting." "You could wreck some foster homes and torment some children. . ." "The light of friendship won't reach us for a million years, that's how faraway from friendship we are" "There will be a reckoning." "You didn't die enough." "Soup isn't very good."
Brother is so soft-spoken to his doggie children. Then he meets a human being and cringes like he can't wait to go home and wash his eyes with soap.
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day 3: screaming
Of Ecstatic Dreams
×-×
jonathan crane×oc ★ sexual assault ★ hurt no comfort ★ fear toxin ★ rough ★ second person pov ★ ao3
You knew the risks you were taking, coming here. Still, you needed information, intelligence, an answer to your boss’ enigma. Leverage, you told yourself, but it’s more like a way to assuage your curiosity. Whatever it is, you’ve found it now; the truth, a powerful bargaining chip and an immediate threat to your sanity, if not your life. It’s your ambition that brought you here and, if you make it out, that’s what’ll swing it for you.
‘Come, now.’ Crane’s low voice resonates through the storage room, clear and cool as a knife. ‘Espionage will not be a good look in your performance evaluation.’
He’s insane. Not insane like ‘unemotional autocrat’, but like insane. Like ‘costumed freak with a bioweapon that targets the victim’s phobias’ insane. You listen for his steps, turn a corner in silence cursing your inability to leave well enough alone. Get to a door, thankfully unlocked, and through it without giving your position away.
A supplies closet, figures. He’s bound to find you here. You sift through your thoughts, trying to see a way out. His poison is airborne, right, and his mask shields him. You take off your shirt, try to fashion it into a makeshift mask, unsure that it’ll do but unable to sit idle and wait for him to get you. You search the shelves blindly for something you can use as a weapon, and thank your stars when you find something even better; a paint respirator. You put it on immediately, stop to cover it with your shirt as a distraction; the illusion of defencelessness should help, and step out to find him making his way over, having obviously guessed your hiding spot.
‘Just let me go, alright? We can discuss this.’
‘Is that why you came here at such an hour? A discussion?’
‘Yes!’ Having recovered from seeing you face him willingly, he resumes his advance towards you. You need him to get closer. ‘Of sorts.’
‘Well, discuss, Miss King.’
‘I’m clearly overqualified for my position as assistant director.’ And you intended to bargain with whatever result came from tonight’s expedition. ‘If you spent more time reviewing my department’s performance instead of playing Walpurgis Nacht with the inmates I think you’d agree.’
He stops in front of you, looks you up and down. ‘Quirine King; Double Master’s in public health and business administration, semi-regularly invited to conferences abroad, health being a vocation for your family for generations; didn’t it cross your mind that I can do more than one thing at once?' He takes his glasses off, eyes you with evident disdain. 'That Mister Cabell is exactly where I want him, as are you?’
He sounds entirely too professional for a man looking at you from behind a raggedy potato sack, but his eyes are limpid as ever where they examine you through it. Not just insane, right, but methodical about it. Your lip curls and you don’t even have time to worry the breather won’t work before he’s spraying you. You fall forward in surprise, grabbing onto his suit as his gaze turns predatory. You’re alright. You are, and you are yanking his mask off before he knows what’s happening, driving his arm into his face and squeezing his forearm in the struggle that ensues until you manage to trigger the button.
He goes still, rigid really, knees locking and arms coming to cross at the wrists over his midriff. After the way this night has started, it’s a welcome change of pace, but still not what you expected. Where’s the horror? Where are the screams you know from the inmates? You tilt your head, inquisitive even now, and he takes a few steps back going pale on the face.
‘Crane…’ You step forward, expecting him to run, but he freezes at the sound of your voice. ‘What did you mean semi-regularly? I’ve done IMSH three years in a row now.’
He nods twice, mechanically, eyes glazed over darting to the sides. ‘That’s… I’ll make sure to note that for doctor Crane’s review and…’
He cuts himself off with a shaky exhale when you move to slide your forefinger up his throat to rest just below his chin. He’s so distanced from fear even now he won’t give you the satisfaction to see him on its throes. Well, that’s to be seen. You remove both your shirt and respirator, eye him critically. ‘And what’d the good doctor like to do now?’
He gasps for air, shakes his head jerkily. Annoying in his denial as he is, he’s still a sight alright; hair tousled from your grip, lips wobbling as he struggles for an answer for what may very well be the first time in his life. You lower your hand, giving him a perfunctory shove backwards that has no business sending him to the floor but still does, somehow. You find you really like being in control. When your eyes rake over his sprawled form, you find something else. He’s hard. This gets a laugh out of you. Of course he’d be, stark mad as he is.
He’s shaking as you join him on the ground, draping your body over his, flinches when you part his thighs with one of yours. Your breath picks up, mirroring his, and you mostly manage to convince yourself you want to kiss him to terrorise him rather than because you want to before you’re pressing your mouth on his plump, quivering lips. He’s panting out ragged breaths, mouth moving uncoordinatedly against yours as he finally voices his distress in the way of a strangled keen. Oh, it’s not enough, but you’ll get him there. You’ve got him right where you want him, after all.
You pull back once he starts hyperventilating too severely for it to be comfortable on your face. His mouth opens and closes a few times, lips flushed an almost violent red against his skin. You want to paint so many shades into him, you decide, as you grind down on his thigh. He’s so worked up, alternating between freezing and shaking in a way that feels so good against your labia even through the clothes, you don’t mind pressing a knee to his crotch. And you’re not really half as violent as you think you could be given the circumstances, but your controlled pressure is enough for his composure to finally break. He takes a big gulp of air, and then his voice rings across the room in a panicked wail.
This is what you wanted. You could not have anticipated it would feel this good. He only gets louder, sounding more urgent, even as he meets the roll of your hips with out of sync thrusts of his own. You can feel the sound vibrating his Adam's apple when you drive your teeth into the yielding, unprepared skin of his neck. You take a rest from bruising him up when his cries start sounding wet. Sure enough, there’s teartracks running down his face. It’s the hottest thing you can think of, and you’re licking one off before you can think better of it.
The world shifts. Your heart skips a beat or five. You swear under your breath as you realise you’ve given yourself a taste of it. The lights are too bright and you feel your nerves twist like snakes under your skin. You spit out on his face, more to spite him than thinking it will help your situation, and see him gag on the portion that landed on his mouth. Moaning lowly, you speed up your movements, see your own skin go translucent like glass.
It’s the toxin, it must be, you stop thinking and close your hands around his neck; lean down to assault his mouth. He’s screaming proper now, but you’re undeterred. You bite down until you taste blood, and it’s like acid in your mouth. His heart rabbits against your breasts, making it all the more intense as his screams become stifled as the pressure from your hands increases, nails digging in. You stop trying to suffocate him, head swimming as you drive your nails down his throat and orgasm to the sound of his frightened sobs.
You push yourself off him after a while, focus on normalising your heart rate. He shakes lethargically where you left him, eyes fixed on the ceiling. You light a cigarette and it takes you a few drags to convince yourself to concoct him an antidote. You’ve gone through too much trouble to figure him out to now have him go vegetable and leave you to deal with some other imbecile.
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☆•☆•☆
Apologies: Hebrews 9:18
the sicilian ♡ turi giuliano/aspanu pisciotta ♡ hurt/comfort ♡ nongraphic descriptions of violence ♡ missing scene ♡ ao3
First came disbelief, like an alien weight pressing on Turi Giuliano’s chest, impeding his breathing. Then, an anger as pure as inexplicable, and blinding like the sun at high noon. He kept his composure at the time, assuring the farmer his daughter would be taken care of; nothing less, being that she’s carrying the scion of his own cousin, his most trusted companion. As the zenith of his wrath wanes, however, understanding reaches him, and with it the foredoomed rovello d'amore.
Not torment, not love, he doesn’t have to face either as long as he’s inflicting them. And he does. Aspanu goes, if not willingly, tractably at least. His lips, so quick to come alive with a sneer or a jest, are frozen still now under his moustache; dark febrile eyes wide open as he’s led away from Turi’s men, silk shirt ripped off him to reveal his thin frame, and tied securely to a craggy old olive, for Turi’s eyes only.
The scourge feels light in Turi’s hold, like it’s just plaited grass as they used to play with in the fields during their adolescence. It’s not, and the sharp welts that rise in his cousin’s sallowy dark skin evidence it. Aspanu exhales like a scoff, and that’s enough to fuel Turi’s passion. The throngs cut repeatedly through the air, landing in a series of firm cracks that colour Aspanu’s front in red fanning patterns. His breathing deepens from the pain, but he doesn’t make another sound. He holds Turi’s gaze without apology and without question, mouth quirking up when the blows start drawing blood, and that undoes the bigger man.
Deflating like a man delivered from possession, Turi takes a step back; lets the scourge fall to the floor. Aspanu looks like a saint mid martyrdom, and he’s throwing himself at his feet as he regains his bearings.
‘Aspanu… forgive me, Aspanu.’
Aspanu sighs, twists in his bonds until he’s pulled his arm free to offer a hand up. Turi’s stares at it, breath knocked out of him. He swallows dry, and holds it for a minute, coming back to himself. Aspanu’s hand is cold on his from his fever, and this is the man he whipped. That weak chest, those shivering shoulders, the body he’s used to shield Turi; defend him; carry him away from certain death. Unable to speak, he unbinds the bloody form of his closest friend and gathers him into his arms. He thinks Aspanu might protest to be put down, but he says nothing as he carries him away.
He sets their sleeping bags away from the camp, lays Aspanu down gently, and begins to tend to the lacerations. He’s not a cruel man, has always hated the callousness of the bastinado even though he’s never had to endure it, and he struggles to reconcile with his actions. And as reprehensible as disgracing a farmer’s daughter is, that’s not the answer… It’s so simple, really, jealousy. He’s always known Aspanu to take his liberties with the loose Palermo girls, but this… it had been too close to an outside commitment. And he… what right does he have. What right does he want, leader or lover? His hand hesitates, ghosting a wet cloth over an angry cut.
He can feel Aspanu’s eyes on him, as if sensing his hesitation. He lowers his hand, instead leaning forward slowly like expecting the smaller man to shift away, and ever so gently presses his trembling lips to the torn skin. Aspanu tenses to his contact, drawing a sharp breath, but holds still. ‘I’m sorry.’
He closes the wounds, presses a kiss to each of them with an apology. By the time he’s done, Aspanu is shaking, and he makes himself meet his gaze. His eyes are so dark, thick lashes making them seem bigger in the low light, burning into his. He makes to stand up, but Aspanu beckons him closer with a finger and his name as he sits up, face impassive yet flushed by consumption.
Turi follows, kneeling next to him, expression open with contrition and streaked with irregular lines of drying blood. They regard each other for a moment, Turi goes to say something else, another apology perhaps, but it dies on his lips as Aspanu pulls him in, pressing his mouth vehemently to them. His breath is hot and fast against Turi’s, lips unnaturally warm, and he kisses him like he’s trying to steal the air from his lungs.
‘I forgive you.’ Their eyes closed, foreheads pressed together, his lips ghost over Turi’s with his words. ‘Will you… will you love me?’
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day one = depression;
Corrupting
b.p.r.d. // abe sapien×ofc // unresolved angst // first person pov // amoral oc // ao3
Grief. What an alien word. So often associated with loss, and loss I know, but whatever this is I don’t. I’m more prone to anger and avoidance, but there’s nothing left in me at this, at Sapien’s… Abraham’s motionless body suspended in a test tube of sorts. It's like those directories have been overwritten, leaving me to crash. And crash I do. Anger would be easy, at Devon and Manning and Corrigan and the whole bureau, since I’ve never cared about precision in my wrath. At Hellboy for leaving and Sherman for disappearing, even at the homunculus for dying off.
Only Johann Kraus joins me in my watch, when he's not away on a mission. You'd think they'd given that up, world going to shit and all. You’d think he’d say more encouraging things, as a ghost psychic, but I don’t have it in me to resent him his uselessness. I think he thinks I appreciate the company, but I’m beyond caring. I join him as he leaves now, figure I could use a shower, only to run into Andrew Devon in the hallway. He was there when Abraham got shot, like as not he did it himself. I’m reminded I’m alive by the loathing that bubbles up my throat.
‘You’re dead, Devon!’ Not my brightest, but I’m bereaved if you’ll allow it.
He mutters some smart reply or other, but I only barely hear it. I’m sliding off Kraus’ preventative hold on my shoulder, even if he doesn't know my suspicions he knows there's no love lost between us with the way he bought into the Black Flame's assertions, and shoving my way past Devon and, were his mates here all along? And the gutter psychic? Unimportant. Everyone’s so irrelevant. I just notice her because she was there too when it happened, they could all be here or in hell like I care.
It’s all the same when I go back in, alone now. I don’t know what I’m doing, but there’s no other place for me here. And next to him, much to Manning’s chagrin, I spend my days. I lay my hands on the glass, step away, reach out with my thoughts trying to make any contact. Trying to find anything to make contact with. I stare. At some points I even trick myself to think I’ve seen his fingers twitch, his eyelids flutter. No use.
Just like I'm no use now. I don't forget the entire planet is under attack, it's more like a secondary thought for me. To hell with the bureau and the country and the entire earth. There's outbreaks, giant bat beasts or whatever it is this week, my father writes from safety. It's only that last one I spare a thought to, but can't bring myself to reply. I've ran into an unhandled exception and I'm, for once in my life, unable to debug.
It’s over, eventually. His vitals crash, and the whitecoats suspect extensive brain damage. Even Kraus says his soul is fighting to leave. Well and good, so should I. I don’t make an attempt to hold my tears back, I let them out freely for I won’t need them where I’m going. And I'm going; I feel the code of my life corrupting, line by line. I wasn’t able to save Abraham from his own bleeding heart, but I’ll still make sure those who pushed him to this pay.
I’m in every computer here, should have thought of that before they made me head of R&D, I know of the correspondence between the higher ups and the Zinco frauds. As fate would have it, I’m also in their system, thanks to a polymorphic I piggybacked through Manning’s emails. They’re, as only I understand it, the enemy. Now I’ll be the enemy too. Sapien thought honesty would win this, get the bureau to actually work with the special agents instead of working them. He’d be horrified if he knew I’m to defect for the frog terrorists, but that’s just a distant consideration to me. He was wrong and now he’s as good as dead. He’s as good as dead, and now I’m going to make them sorry.
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Freddie Lounds:
recognised a very specific brand of hostility in Will, which made her sense that Will might be the murderer
figured out that Abigail killed Nicholas Boyle
probably the first (besides Hannibal and Will themselves) realized how unusual relationship between Will and Hannibal is (and almost died because of it)
called Hannibal and Will “murder husbands”
Bonus quote:
“I think people hate Freddie because she tells the truth. But it’s like ‘if you don’t want me to call you Murder Husbands, stop being Murder Husbands!’” — Lara Jean Chorostecki when asked whether or not Freddie pronounced Will and Hannibal Murder Husbands just to spite them
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Above is the first official March of Pain prompts list and some alternatives. All of those will also be typed out at the bottom of this post for accessibility.
March of Pain is similar to things like Whumptober, Comfortember, and Hurtcember: That is to say it's a list of hurt/comfort and whump-oriented prompts for writers, artists, etc. to fill throughout the month of March.
RULES
1. You can write/draw for any fandom or pairing
2. You can write/draw SFW or NSFW content, just label it accordingly
3. Please tag any Tumblr posts sharing your prompt fills with #marchofpain2024 so that we can find and repost them
4. If you post your works to AO3, please add them to this collection and add "March of Pain" and/or "March of Pain 2024" to the additional tags of your prompt fill(s)
5. The challenge officially starts on March 1st but feel free to write/draw before then and/or submit things after the month ends officially, whatever works best for you
6. Be kind to other participants
7. You DO NOT have to do every single prompt if you don't want to. The point is to have fun and spark creativity, not to feel like you're doing a chore
PROMPTS LIST
1. Depression
2. Apologies
3. Screaming
4. Self-Inflicted
5. Anxiety
6. Career-Ending Injury
7. Bankruptcy
8. Broken
9. Vomiting
10. Flashback
11. Sick
12. Tics
13. Nerve Damage
14. Dissociation
15. Abuse
16. Burden
17. Work Injury
18. Miserable
19. Heavy
20. Addiction
21. Unlovable
22. Pain
23. Cut
24. Stomach Bug
25. Meltdown
26. Worthless
27. Food
28. Burn
29. Scars
30. Crying
31. Shutdown
ALT PROMPTS
1. "I'm sorry"
2. "I love you"
3. "Please"
4. "Help me"
5. "I'll be better"
Yes, this is by the same event runner as the @hurtcember challenge, so if you did that challenge and noticed any similarities, that is why.
#oh you know what time it is#sure im more of a fluff girl and when it comes to pain a great canvas but subpar medium. still#well see
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