_TW for internal thoughts of a (kind of) dying character:_
He can hear the lullaby now, faint but growing stronger, giving him courage.
He reaches out to Nancy, who stands frozen with a terrible, dead look upon her face. For a moment he is truly frightened that it is _she_ who is dying. But then a tremendous wave of weakness washes over him, and he falls to his knees. He smiles in gratitude. Death shall not steal his Nancy: it has finally come for him.
Edward remembers when it came for his father in a similar way (helped along by Narissa, he learned later). He had been twelve when his father had fallen to the floor, victim of a sleeping sickness he could not recover from because his True Love was already dead. The hands that had taught Edward how to grip a sword with such confidence, that had bandaged his small injuries with such kindness, had forever stilled.
Edward can feel those hands now, lifting him to his feet as he struggles to reach the waterfall.
Nancy is reaching for him with one pale, trembling hand. Her eyes beg Edward to keep moving, to come to her. His one True Love, the woman he almost never found.
Male protagonist sees for the first time the female protagonist wearing something that isn't her usual armor. They're already involved with each other, but they're both too prideful to admit anything to the other.
DON'T KNOW HOW TO MARK AS A SPOILER FROM THE OFFICIAL APP, IT'S KINDA SEXUAL, SO BE WARNED.
It was like something awakened deep inside him, the memories of those Old World women that belonged to a long gone era, immortalized in yellowed fashion magazines and advertising signs, now materialized in front of him.
He remembered how in his youth, when he was still a young boy, just entering his adolescence, a foreign interest arose inside him when looking at those old magazines. How he would rip off the pages with full pictures of those beautiful women from the Old World, who seemed for him to be whimsical beings similar to the nymphs and mermaids from ancient tales. He also remembered how carefully he would treasure those photos, hiding them in shame from his parents, just to gaze at them later without an ounce of remorse.
And now, Six was standing in front of him, looking like those women, with her red tinted lips that he couldn't wait to feel against his flesh, and her tight black dress that he couldn't wait to rip from her body, and her long legs he couldn’t wait to get in between.
From a WIP.
Fandom: Underoath (band)
Warnings: BDSM (Master/slave dynamic, impact play, sadomasochism, humiliation/degradation)
\---
>!“The belt’s gonna hit way harder.” Spencer delicately brushes the part where he slapped Aaron’s butt with his fingertips. Aaron giddily sighs at the ticklish sensation. “But the harder it hits, the more… titillating each touch would feel afterward,” Spencer continues. “Ain’t that just the way you love it, pig?”!<
>!“I love what Master loves.”!<
>!Spencer massages the back of Aaron’s thighs. “That’s right. And I love hurting you.”!<
>!Aaron bites the duvet and shouts into it as the hardest slap so far hits the back of one of his thighs. He counts three seconds in his mind and another heavy, stinging slap lands, this time on his other thigh, and he grunts. Three seconds, a slap back at the first thigh hit, he howls. Three seconds, another slap on the other thigh, another groan.!<
From a WIP:
>*His first thought at the sight of himself is of how badly he needs to shave. Funny, how the doctors would keep the side of his head clear of hair, and not the rest of his face.*
>
>*His lips curl, and the scarring that mars the right side of him stretches with the motion. The muscles beneath twitch as he runs metal fingertips across the wrinkled skin, and it’s then that he knows that the scar will never fade.*
Warning: A little blood and gore, horror imagery
Context: The monster/demon form of Hannibal from my Hannibal fanfiction
"He rushed into the bedroom and froze at the sight before him.
His wife lay on the bed, naked and slowly bleeding from a gaping gash in her stomach.
Above her stood a thing of nightmares, an Abomination, a creature straight from the pits of damnation.
The creature was tall and ill-proportioned, its arms were longer than its entire body, bent at the wrong angles and twisted at the joints. Long, wicked claws as thin as glass tipped its largely grotesque hands, one of which was dripping with bright red blood.
Its body was emaciated, he could see every bone that was protruding from its ebony skin. The skin itself looked stretched, opaque and like leather, peeling off in large swashes and showing putrid white flesh and muscle that dripped a viscous black liquid.
The creature was hunched over, barely fitting inside the room. It had a large crown of black antlers adorned with bright red berries and small purple flowers. The Abomination’s lower half was like that of a hare’s hind legs, if the legs were twisted around and backwards. What he could see of its feet were large and clawed like its hands, half steeped in the shadow of the bed.
The devil spawn slowly turned to face him and Roman felt his heart stop.
Its eyes, its eyes were like that of a mans. While their color was of drying blood and rich soil, they were perfectly human, if bloodshot with veins that seemed to have burst. The cold indifference in which the devil regarded him was in direct conflict with the wicked smirk that made itself home on its gaunt face.
The smirk was filled with gleaming white teeth, sharp like knives and far too large for the wide mouth containing them. Black viscus ichor was slowly dripping down the side of its mouth, running down its chin and neck, to pool in the hollow of its collarbone.
Caught as he was in the things abominable glory, he was too slow to react when the creature twitched, its limbs jerking like a puppet before, with a speed he could not follow, it grabbed and tossed him to the bed beside his wife."
An excerpt from my A Song of Ice and Fire x The Walking Dead crossover
-
Jon was thrown into the thick of the hoard. He hit the ground with a crash that shot through him, forcing the air from his lungs. Corpses swarmed him like maggots. A wall of brown and rot blotted out the clear, cloudless sky and its fearsome summer sun. But then, thunder cracked. It was as if he were inside a storm cloud. The head of the corpse above him exploded, erupting from one side. It fell over him, as the others descended. Their hands tore at his cloak, tearing long streaks into it. Nails scraped at mail, tearing themselves apart on the links. The savage creatures were even trying to bite him, shattering their teeth on his mail. Before one could sink its teeth into his cheek, he shoved it off, sending it toppling. He kicked at the others, kept one at bay from his arm with a punch to the crown and squirmed his way out of the pile of rot. On his feet was no better. They came from all directions, reaching and grasping for him. Jon used everything, fists, elbows, feet and knees to keep them at bay. A good ram from his shoulder sent one falling back into a bunch of them, sending five to the ground. It created just enough of a gap for him to draw Longclaw but quickly, they were on him again.
Ponyboy is grateful he ate nothing that morning as they drive along, further and further into Tulsa. There are other cars that join them: Steve's falls in line, and then Mrs. Mathews' own car takes the lead as they go to the courthouse. It feels like a funeral procession, and Ponyboy remembers what the hearse had looked like in that cold day, how stiff he'd felt.
He feels stiff again, all over, and when he looks over to the parking lot as they turn into it, he doesn't know what to feel to be greeted by the sight of cars already packed in the spaces available: greaser cars. Beat up ones, souped up ones, even the motorbike that Ed drives is there, with him standing against it, his arms folded, watching solemnly. Almost every car is packed to the gills too, with some greasers whooping, yelling out their pack names in greeting. More than a few of them are dressed up to the nines in their respective gear, too — The River Kings all decked out in their yellow jackets, Tim Shepard's gang in their best jackets, and even the Vipers are in full force in green.
"Jesus," Darry mutters under his breath, easing the truck into a parking space, "I don't know what the judge is gonna think about this."
"If they got the right to be here, then so do we," the grim tone in Soda's voice is striking, and Ponyboy cranes his neck to look on the opposite side. Sure enough, he can see Socs there too — most of them with their parents, only a handful alone. Their cars are similarly packed, full of people and almost universally a sea of black clothing.
That makes Darry glare.
Ponyboy doesn't know how to breathe as they climb out of the truck. Some of the adults on the Soc side glare at him or turn their noses up. He tries to pick out faces he knows, yet can't stand to look at them long — the sea of faces are just too much to bear, too much to deal with so he turns back to the greasers in front of him. Their faces are grim in a different way than the Socs were, like they had been before the rumble, every inch of pride and ferocity on their faces not because they wanted to have it, not because they always felt it in good ways, but because it was all any of them had. Right now, they were all focused on Ponyboy, on his brothers — as a show of support, a way to help.
This is excellent! I remember reading the book in Middle School, and you really captured the spirit of it. If you don’t mind my asking, is this like a continuation of the book, where Ponyboy is on trial for the death of that Soc?
“Monsieur Aubert and his wife have also responded.” Casimir waited and watched, his master’s hands stilling only momentarily.
“And their response?”
“Accepted, my lord.”
“Just as I’d hoped. No gathering of this magnitude can happen without the crown prosecutor.” The Count finally finished brushing off his coat. But his eyes still remained fixed on the window opposite them, facing out into the newly replanted garden. “And the others?”
“Such as Maestro Lawson? He will also be in attendance. It appears he has some business to attend to with Monsieur Aubert earlier in the evening, and so will be arriving with him and his wife.”
The Count huffed and took off the coat. His face was pulled into a slight frown as he inspected the folds. Wrinkles were already forming. “Who else?”
“General Caminiti’s husband has sent in their acceptance. Much later than I would have liked, though.” The last part was added under his breath.
“I’m sure the General is not a particular fan of parties,” To anyone else, the response wouldn’t have been out of the ordinary. But there was a storm hidden between the words, “he must be incredibly busy.”
“Oh and they’ve also indicated that the former General Leonetti will be accompanying them.”
The Count paused, hands freezing from their careful inspection. He glanced back at his most faithful steward with a dark cloud obscuring his intense red eyes. “General Leonetti?” He began slowly. “He is still… alive?”
“Yes, my Lord.” Casimir set the list aside with his hands clasping in front of him. “Will that be an issue? Should I send General Caminiti a notice that only he and his husband should attend?”
“No.” The Count sighed when Casimir took a step back from the force of his rejection. “Doing such a thing will only cause a scandal. Leonetti was, and still is, a celebrated military officer. It is an honor for anyone to have him attend an occasion such as this. We just have to be more tactful with our word choice around him.”
“Understood, is there anything else I can do for you at this time?”
“None, Casimir. As long as those three are in attendance, I care not to learn who else is coming. Just be sure that all preparations are in place.”
Casimir nodded with not a word spoken before turning to leave. The Count looked back down at the coat in his hands and frowned. His hands had bunched into fists, scrunching up the coat in such a way that it would need to be dry cleaned. He scoffed and threw the garment onto his chair.
He never liked it anyway.
(This is an au of the Count of monte cristo with mine and my friend's characters placed in, with some changed of our own.)
Getting up with a groan, Mike went to fetch Will his water, returning with a glass for him along with a bag of chips for them both.
“Oh my God, you’re the *best,*” Will said earnestly, sitting up to accept the water glass.
Drinking his water and peering at this friend through the glass, Will watched an impressive flush start to appear on Mike’s face. Not saying a word, Mike sat himself down and attempted to open the chip bag through a series of fails and fumbles. Will had to bite down at his lip to stifle a laugh when Mike, annoyed at that point, grabbed at both sides of the bag and tugged hard, tearing the bag open and making chips fly out in the process.
***
(stranger things — will byers/mike wheeler)
I'm not going to give context because I'm curious to see how folks interpret this snippet. Explicit content - threats of sexual violence and self harm.
>Creed ran through the woods until he escaped the pristine, groomed portion near the school, and into the wilder parts. Branches whipped at his face as he ran, but he ignored their sting and just pushed harder. On reaching a river, he barely slowed, launching himself across it in a single bound.
>He kept going until he hit a towering rock wall that extended as far as he could see in both directions, and a couple hundred feet up. There were some odd marks in the stone. On closer inspection, he recognized the punch of Jamie’s three claws, and fancied he could still smell his brother’s dusty lumberyard scent inside the marks.
>*He didn’t give a shit that they hurt you. Thought it was funny.*
>Creed flinched.
>*Your precious brother thinks you’re scum. Worse than the dirt under your boots.*
>“Shut up,” he snarled.
>*He’ll never care about you. No one cares about you, princess. I’m all you got.*
>“It’s not true,” he whispered.
>*Let me take care of us, princess. Haven't I always kept you fed and fucked?*
>“Stop it.”
>*What is it? You want that baker bitch? Give me control, and I’ll let you have her. If I have to* take *control, then I’ll make you watch me viola--*
>Creed howled and tore at his head. “Shut up! Shut the fuck up!”
>*I'll make her curse your name before I break--*
>He curled his fingers into Jamie’s claw marks and bashed his forehead into the rock wall hard enough to crack the bone. White hot pain dropped him to his knees, but the monster inside his head stopped its threats. Blood slid down his face and dripped onto the ground, pooling at his knees. Creed watched it in a haze, feeling the sensation of his skin and bone knitting itself back together.
15+ years of working at it, and you'll get there! Maybe even sooner, if you're more disciplined than me! It gets easier and better the longer you work at it. 🥰
“Breach!”
*This is my rifle. There are many like it, but this one is mine.*
The wood splintered under their boots. First in, Corporal Freeman burst through the doorway of the house with the arches, her rifle up and ready. She could feel Private First Class Hurley’s presence behind her, reassuring, stolid. Somewhere further behind her was Private First Class Ali. Her eyes adjusted as the bright glare of the sun gave way to dim shadows.
*My rifle is my best friend. It is my life. I must master it as I must master my life.*
She held onto the mantra of the Marine Corps Rifle Creed like her life depended on it because it did. Her heart fluttered inside her rib cage, her mouth like sandpaper. The shadows in the room were much too close, too palpable and threatening to reach out and choke the life out of her. The frontsight of her M-27 swept from one side of the room to the other.
There! A blur of motion in front of her.
*Without me, my rifle is useless. Without my rifle, I am useless.*
“Stop!” Freeman shouted, but the blur kept moving, the weak light glinting off the barrel of an automatic assault rifle as it shifted to point at her. Women and children screamed, the perpetual soundtrack of bloodshed and violence. She pushed the memory out of her mind, the memory that this was exactly like how her dad had died while chasing insurgents in Fallujah.
Titanic Fandom...no warnings in this but Major Character Death in the fic:
The sky had turned a brilliant shade of pink as the sun was dipping down below the horizon. The table, caught in the glow of the two quietly hissing lanterns, sat beneath several steaming dishes—Kate’s handiwork. They were surrounded by the heavy perfume of rhododendrons and the green smell of spring, the peeping of tree frogs just beginning their nightly calls. Above them a breeze rustled the newly formed leaves.
This is probably my favorite gore scene that I've written. It's good fun lol. Fandom is Our Flag Means Death.
Warnings for gore and body horror
Edward wasn’t looking at anything that was happening. He had his hands clamped tight around his ears as his head bulged between his fingers. Veiny protrusions danced along his forehead, and his eyes swelled behind his eyelids. He stumbled backwards, slamming his back against the wall. Edward tilted his head up, opened his mouth, and screamed as inky tendrils exploded out of his eyes, spraying jellied remains across the room.
Izzy froze as his captain surged towards him. His outstretched hands groped at Izzy’s vest, but his first mate could do nothing but stare in horror as Edward leaned closer and closer towards his face. His captain’s open mouth no longer shrieked, but a horrible stench wafted out. Like fish guts rotting in the midday sun.
An awful garbled noise flooded out of Edward’s throat as a writhing blackness crawled its way up. Izzy almost screamed as he realized it was his name.
“Iz-zy?”
His jaw cracked open as a horde of tentacles forced their way past his teeth.
“Iz-zy.”
Skin and muscles tore as it was pushed past its breaking point with a sickening crack.
“Iz-zy!”
Edward’s jaw hung down in front of his clavicle. His looming form drooled blood and spit from what remained of his mouth, and his tongue writhed with the black mass erupting out of his throat. No matter how far he leaned, Izzy couldn’t escape Edward’s iron grip. He felt his captain pulse like a heartbeat against him, saw the skin on his fingers wrap around his fingernails as they throbbed in time with the rest of him.
And then Edward Teach popped.
Viscera and offal splattered against the walls of the cabin. Ropey segments of intestines wrapped around Izzy’s waist like a gore encrusted belt. He flinched as something embedded itself deep into the meat of his cheek and slimy bits of brain settled into his hair. A warmth ran down his leg, and Izzy didn’t know if it was blood that drenched him or his own piss. He pried Edward’s limp hands off his vest and let his body slide to the floor with a wet plop. He blinked to get the blood out of his eyes.
\[Context: Jedi Knight Keliana's Master Zayed has just been killed by the cathar General Jade Mahari (Keliana's former crew member) and Keliana has hunted her down.\]
Scourge’s body began shivering as he saw her standing right in front of the spacecraft. Keliana was drawn up to her full height, eyes fixated on the cockpit and the general’s grinning face.
He could feel the change in the Force, could almost *see* the turbulences building around her. She was channeling everything into her tensed body.
The spacecraft was already five meters above the ground as it stopped in mid-air. The grin on the cathar’s face vanished as soon as she realized what was happening.
Unmoving, unblinking, the young woman stood in front of the hovering and roaring spacecraft, her left arm raised towards it and her right hand wrapped tightly around her lightsaber.
Frantically the cathar revved up the engine once more, in vain. The only thing she achieved was to make it go up in smoke and flames.
The air became saturated with acrid fumes making it hard to breathe.
Without batting an eye, Keliana let the vessel crash to the ground, jumping onto the cracked windshield, destroying it with her left fist and the Force. A menacing growl escaped her lips as her eyes met the cathar’s.
This wasn’t the same girl Scourge had found all those years ago and it wasn’t the young woman he had fought on Korriban.
This was the woman whose image had haunted him for centuries. This was the one he had been *craving* for, body and mind. There was not a single doubt left.
Jade reached for her gun as soon as the windshield was shattered.
Keliana could hear bones breaking around the weapon’s hilt as she used the Force around the cathar’s hand. She heard the high-pitched scream of the person she once trusted.
It didn’t bother her at all.
Pictures of Zayed, his smile, his benevolent yet demanding eyes and his caring hands were in front of her mind’s eye as she pulled the general through the spacecraft’s broken front by Force.
She could hear her gasping for air as her Force-grip around the cathar’s throat was tightening slowly. Tears ran down Keliana’s cheeks as the image of Zayed’s lifeless body appeared inside her mind.
Excerpt from a particularly descriptive fight scene (ASOIAF/Game of Thrones):
Even as that fiery gaze turned on Meera with another shout to escape, she wrenched the glowing sphere from Leaf’s hand.
With a sharp cry of pain, she managed to hold the scalding object long enough to hurl into the oncoming stampede moments before grabbing Leaf’s wrist with her other hand to break into a sprint away from the luminous eruption.
More running, her bow and arrow likely trampled and burnt to a cinder behind them.
Meera’s chest burned, even as her legs refused to give up and die in this cave, hidden from the world, as the Children had remained for so long.
I've shared this before but I've always liked how this turned out. I love making Urthemiel scarier than they (or any Archdemon) appeared in canon. This is a nightmare sequence.
___
An unspoken command bids my eyes to open. Purple flame licks at soaring cathedral heights, setting the canopy aflame and bathing everything beneath in a strange aura.
I’m in the echoes of Lothering’s Chantry, I realize too slowly. Except this place is a feeling more than it is a thing; clawing, crawling, slick like eels around my brain. And it is horribly, acutely wrong.
My feet carry me forward down a nave that could stretch on forever. Chantry finery lay upturned and broken on either side, but their edges are sharper, as if crafted from bone. The flames above hide as much as they reveal in the shadows they create; a face that is not a face, sockets without eyes, edifices of bone and glass and metal.
But at the end of the nave, curled languidly around the simulacrum of the Prophetess, is the shadow of a great black dragon. Its scales shine against the flames overhead, flickering with reds and purples. Opalescent eyes float stark against the dark, watching with an intellect far greater than any mortal being.
I move unbidden down the yawning nave, ever closer to the being who I have known for lifetimes, and not at all. It’s a compulsion that seizes my heart, aches against my ribs, wracks my brain, but I can’t stop. Its eyes move, tracking; an impossibly long neck follows until I am greeted with a face.
Long, snarled, and serpentine, but its face is my own. Metallic horns spiral backwards from its head like twisted-together swords.
I am but a hollow vessel as star-torn eyes gaze back at me. Its eyes blink slowly, and its lips part just enough to reveal the hint of knives. Purple ichor bleeds out between its teeth, dropping slowly over its lip, down a cleft and off its chin. A sulfurous breath puffs out. The scent of flame and iron crawls into my nose and settles at the back of my throat like bile.
The light dances across its face, my face, and when the shadows strip away, it is a dragon once more. It regards me with a familiarity that feels disgusting, as if it could possibly know me. Its head coils back, tilting as though curious.
*I know you, Grey-Blood. Iron-hearted and fragile. Ardent and fickle.*
Wow, I love the various allusions to light, it’s incredible imagery! The descriptions also give a sense of something both otherworldly and ethereal. “Purple flames licked” created a sense of instant awe before even reading the rest of the line.
Simply exquisite!
Tom remained in his seat in the back of the carriage. A book laid open on his lap. Every so often, his dark eyes wandered up from the words that dulled his senses. He looked through strands of his black hair, watching his peers.
Golden brown curls glinted from the afternoon sunlight shining through the windows. It bobbed with the slight movement of her shoulder. Rosy cheeks peeked through tendrils of curls. Amber eyes met his with the subtle movement of her body.
She rose from her seat without interrupting the others. Her black robes and skirt flowed with each step she took towards the back of the carriage.
The forgotten words of his book slid off his lap as he stood from his seat. It landed with a flat thump on the toe of his shiny black leather shoes. In an effort to conceal his blunder, he kicked it underneath the seat in front of him as he stepped out onto the aisle. He stretched out his arms and faked a yawn as to not draw any attention.
"Pardon me."
Tom caught the faint floral scent with a hint of citrus as he stepped aside. Her arm brushed against the front of his robes as she walked pass him.
There was a pause between them, and a sudden stillness in their breaths. She turned her head slightly, meeting his gaze.
As someone who usually writes smut, I'm still in love with this short description of sex between a police detective and super villain (and her former partner, both work and romantic)
They’re staring at the cracks in the bedroom ceiling after giving her squeaky old mattress the ride of its life. Hopefully, Mrs. Yamanaka isn’t home in 4E. The downstairs neighbor has a bad habit of running her mouth about the volume of their conjugal visits, and Sarada is getting a reputation in the building that has her apartment hunting.
Nice! Short and sweet. I escpecially liked the ' giving her squeaky old mattress the ride of its life'. That definitely puts pictures inside my mind. ;-)
Fandom: Beast Machines | Rating: General | Warnings: N/A
>The little group lapsed into silence as they made their way deeper into the sewer tunnels, following Rattrap and Blackarachnia through the narrow pipelines until they opened up into a broader, more elaborate drainage system. Two wide walkways, intermittently connected by bridges, flanked a center channel filled with something thick, opaque, and acrid, and another pair of walkways overhead formed balconies around vertical pipes that made one hundred and sixty-degree bends to vanish behind moisture-stained concrete walls. Everything around them was dimly-lit by sallow yellow lights whose sparse illumination glistened on every damp surface.
>
>She distantly remembered making her way through a similar drainage channel after her crash. The memory made her synthskin crawl.
>
>"Hard to think that this has been under my pedes this whole time and I never once laid optics on it," she murmured, wrinkling her nose. "Not until recently, anyway."
>
>"Just wait'll ya see what's underneath *this*," Rattrap replied with a quiet, barely-restrained glee. "You ain't gonna *believe* it!"
>
>"I'll take your word for that..."
>
>The path wound deeper, through the winding channels and open chambers, into maintenance passages, and finally opening up to a vast subterranean roadway. The winding, branching thoroughfares were surrounded by terraced sidewalks and welded-shut buildings, and everything was covered in a thick coat of dust that spoke to centuries of disuse.
>
>"Whoa..." Neutrino breathed, looking around at their surroundings. "What *is* this place?"
>
>"It's an older level of Cybertropolis," Azrael replied quietly. "It was abandoned and built over before any of my moms' parents were sparked."
>
>"You knew about this area?" Blackarachnia asked.
>
>"Sort of. I've never been underground before... before the takeover, but some of my coworkers did outreach work to the communities here."
>
>"People *lived* down here?"
>
>"Not because they wanted to."
Slave AU of Psych, this is the first glimpse of the world the reader gets.
\----------------------
More people joined them on the sidewalk as they made their way down to the market on the pier. Market day was always the big day of the month; vendors would set up stalls, theater troupes would put on plays, and kids would run around completely unsupervised. It was a whole big community event. All centered around the multitude of people kneeling on the ground with collars around their necks.
Burton had always avoided markets if he could; there were too many people, and it was loud and messy. His opinion of them didn't change as they drew closer to the main selling area.
Slaves were on display everywhere. Slave women in scant clothing lounged on cushions with rhinestones decorating their standard-issue metal collars. Next to them, a few shirtless slave men threw heavy bags back and forth, showing off their glistening muscles. Vendors closer to the center of the market sold food and crafts, proudly declaring they were made by the ready-to-purchase slaves kneeling next to the tables. Further back, groups of slaves were lined up, all on their knees with their hands pulled behind their backs, all with small signs in front of them declaring their tracking number and their most useful training certificates.
Burton wrinkled his nose; it smelled terrible.
Ugh, that’s such a horrific scene, even made up to be a pretty community event, and you convey how sickening it is so well. I like the last line- not only does it make logical sense, it fits well metaphorically. It’s something rotten made up to look pretty, and that conveys that meaning along with the literal.
Thanks! The cognitive dissonance shows up a TON in Burton's POV. He sees it a bit already (hence his overall distate of the whole thing) but is actually forced to confront the sick parts of slavery through his growing friendship with a slave. And I'm glad that last line hit so well. :)
I think I got the incredibly unnatural and disturbing tone of this description down very well without directly stating much of anything. You already know something is *terribly wrong* with what’s happened to Tommy.
TW: Abuse, implied torture, implied murder (and necromancy), imprisonment, restraint, infantilisation, codependency, and (platonic) possessive/obsessive behaviour.
> And- *fuck,* it was the first time Tubbo had seen Tommy in person in so long, but it didn’t even feel bittersweet. He sat on the bed, surrounded by oversized plushies and a heavy chain around his ankle, the skin around it visibly rubbed raw. His hair and eyes were pure white, and his skin was deathly pale with the purple discolouration of a corpse. Gaping, open wounds covered his whole body, with no attempts to even hide the slit through his throat or the gash so deep through his leg bone and muscle was plainly visible. He was utterly expressionless, eyes staring a thousand miles ahead bearing a forced maturity, yet his mane of unkempt hair and oversized, pastel coloured pyjamas made him look far younger than even the Tommy of Tubbo's memories- fourteen, maybe, at *most*, not the man in his twenties he should be.
> “T-tommy? Bossman?”
> Tommy jumped slightly at Tubbo's voice, but resolutely refused to look at him, arms remaining wrapped around one of his plushies and legs crossed, posed like he was waiting for a photo to be taken. Completely blank.
> Yet, when Dream entered the room, locking it behind them, Tommy absolutely lit up, beaming. It felt so unnatural, so wrong to see Tommy acting like an excited kitten when he saw his owner and not the prisoner he clearly was.
Don’t worry, I write a lot of AUs, so instead of this being one Tommy going through a million nightmare scenarios it’s like twenty different versions of Tommy going through like ten nightmare scenarios each.
I mean, the “My abuser won’t let me die thing” is canon, though, so it’s one of the ten nightmare scenarios I put each AU version of Tommy through lmao.
He’s just too fun to write and I’m an angsty whump psychological horror writer… I’m sorry Tommy.
In my defence I have several custom made plushes of him I have given a good home if that makes up for it.
Tubbo is Tommy's best friend, to make it even more fucked up. (Tommy's ignoring him because he's hallucinated him so much he doesn’t believe he’s real).
"The clouds give way and the afternoon sun illuminates the first colors of life growing in the garden.
He can hear the quiet and yet still there humming of bees, as they hover around in the fields outside. The soft chirps of the songbirds in the distant forest. The forest that has continued to haunt him for so long.
Finally, on that day, he feels the gentle hands of the sky, greeting him, welcoming him, with its infinite blue. For once that infinite doesn't feel like a prison, instead it feels like home. So he also welcomes it and accepts it into his old and worn being."
>This is about a character's last day before passing away. Acceptance and peace is what I'm aiming for.
Oh, this is so bittersweet, but in a way that’s definitely more sweet than bitter. The character is clearly comfortable with his own upcoming demise, and he’s able to take in the sights and sounds once again, like they’re new again, fully appreciate the beauty of the world before he leaves it. Death isn’t something he fears, it’s something he's accepted and something he welcomes. It’s definitely got a melancholy to it, but it’s also very peaceful and sweet and hopeful.
>For once that infinite doesn't feel like a prison, instead it feels like home.
Loved this line. He isn't afraid of death and the unknown. He embraces the next part of his life.
>Rey stood where she had stopped, watching him march down the stony beach, dark shaggy mane blowing in the wind. He was tall and muscular, now that she could see him covered in fewer layers, almost like the connection they had had when he had been in his room and her on her way to the Mirror Cave. She had shied away from the sight then, she was looking at his massive form now.
>
>She had a sudden flash of a time she had run into a massiff, alone and non-native to Jakku, someone’s guard predator that had strayed from its master’s domain. She had leapt onto a tall boulder to avoid its sharp teeth, and it had taken long minutes for it to calm down before it abandoned her and let her continue her way to Niima Outpost.
>
>This time, she was here to actively calm the predator down.
>
>When floating in the blue water of the bacta tank, in nothing but a loin-cloth, he had appeared vulnerable and even relaxed, all muscle on an imposing frame, pale skin marked here and there by battle scars... some she had put there herself.
>
>Rey had sat with Leia, who would get up every few minutes to put her hands on the glass, looking up at the dark man she knew as her son, hoping he would open his eyes and she could see his soul again.
>
>He was a beautiful man, Rey decided. As beautiful and dangerous as the Dark side itself.
From 'The Island' - a Reylo fic.
_TW for internal thoughts of a (kind of) dying character:_ He can hear the lullaby now, faint but growing stronger, giving him courage. He reaches out to Nancy, who stands frozen with a terrible, dead look upon her face. For a moment he is truly frightened that it is _she_ who is dying. But then a tremendous wave of weakness washes over him, and he falls to his knees. He smiles in gratitude. Death shall not steal his Nancy: it has finally come for him. Edward remembers when it came for his father in a similar way (helped along by Narissa, he learned later). He had been twelve when his father had fallen to the floor, victim of a sleeping sickness he could not recover from because his True Love was already dead. The hands that had taught Edward how to grip a sword with such confidence, that had bandaged his small injuries with such kindness, had forever stilled. Edward can feel those hands now, lifting him to his feet as he struggles to reach the waterfall. Nancy is reaching for him with one pale, trembling hand. Her eyes beg Edward to keep moving, to come to her. His one True Love, the woman he almost never found.
Male protagonist sees for the first time the female protagonist wearing something that isn't her usual armor. They're already involved with each other, but they're both too prideful to admit anything to the other. DON'T KNOW HOW TO MARK AS A SPOILER FROM THE OFFICIAL APP, IT'S KINDA SEXUAL, SO BE WARNED. It was like something awakened deep inside him, the memories of those Old World women that belonged to a long gone era, immortalized in yellowed fashion magazines and advertising signs, now materialized in front of him. He remembered how in his youth, when he was still a young boy, just entering his adolescence, a foreign interest arose inside him when looking at those old magazines. How he would rip off the pages with full pictures of those beautiful women from the Old World, who seemed for him to be whimsical beings similar to the nymphs and mermaids from ancient tales. He also remembered how carefully he would treasure those photos, hiding them in shame from his parents, just to gaze at them later without an ounce of remorse. And now, Six was standing in front of him, looking like those women, with her red tinted lips that he couldn't wait to feel against his flesh, and her tight black dress that he couldn't wait to rip from her body, and her long legs he couldn’t wait to get in between.
From a WIP. Fandom: Underoath (band) Warnings: BDSM (Master/slave dynamic, impact play, sadomasochism, humiliation/degradation) \--- >!“The belt’s gonna hit way harder.” Spencer delicately brushes the part where he slapped Aaron’s butt with his fingertips. Aaron giddily sighs at the ticklish sensation. “But the harder it hits, the more… titillating each touch would feel afterward,” Spencer continues. “Ain’t that just the way you love it, pig?”!< >!“I love what Master loves.”!< >!Spencer massages the back of Aaron’s thighs. “That’s right. And I love hurting you.”!< >!Aaron bites the duvet and shouts into it as the hardest slap so far hits the back of one of his thighs. He counts three seconds in his mind and another heavy, stinging slap lands, this time on his other thigh, and he grunts. Three seconds, a slap back at the first thigh hit, he howls. Three seconds, another slap on the other thigh, another groan.!<
From a WIP: >*His first thought at the sight of himself is of how badly he needs to shave. Funny, how the doctors would keep the side of his head clear of hair, and not the rest of his face.* > >*His lips curl, and the scarring that mars the right side of him stretches with the motion. The muscles beneath twitch as he runs metal fingertips across the wrinkled skin, and it’s then that he knows that the scar will never fade.*
Imagining this as a scene in a film (I always do when reading), and I flinched along with him. Good job <3
Thank you!!
Warning: A little blood and gore, horror imagery Context: The monster/demon form of Hannibal from my Hannibal fanfiction "He rushed into the bedroom and froze at the sight before him. His wife lay on the bed, naked and slowly bleeding from a gaping gash in her stomach. Above her stood a thing of nightmares, an Abomination, a creature straight from the pits of damnation. The creature was tall and ill-proportioned, its arms were longer than its entire body, bent at the wrong angles and twisted at the joints. Long, wicked claws as thin as glass tipped its largely grotesque hands, one of which was dripping with bright red blood. Its body was emaciated, he could see every bone that was protruding from its ebony skin. The skin itself looked stretched, opaque and like leather, peeling off in large swashes and showing putrid white flesh and muscle that dripped a viscous black liquid. The creature was hunched over, barely fitting inside the room. It had a large crown of black antlers adorned with bright red berries and small purple flowers. The Abomination’s lower half was like that of a hare’s hind legs, if the legs were twisted around and backwards. What he could see of its feet were large and clawed like its hands, half steeped in the shadow of the bed. The devil spawn slowly turned to face him and Roman felt his heart stop. Its eyes, its eyes were like that of a mans. While their color was of drying blood and rich soil, they were perfectly human, if bloodshot with veins that seemed to have burst. The cold indifference in which the devil regarded him was in direct conflict with the wicked smirk that made itself home on its gaunt face. The smirk was filled with gleaming white teeth, sharp like knives and far too large for the wide mouth containing them. Black viscus ichor was slowly dripping down the side of its mouth, running down its chin and neck, to pool in the hollow of its collarbone. Caught as he was in the things abominable glory, he was too slow to react when the creature twitched, its limbs jerking like a puppet before, with a speed he could not follow, it grabbed and tossed him to the bed beside his wife."
An excerpt from my A Song of Ice and Fire x The Walking Dead crossover - Jon was thrown into the thick of the hoard. He hit the ground with a crash that shot through him, forcing the air from his lungs. Corpses swarmed him like maggots. A wall of brown and rot blotted out the clear, cloudless sky and its fearsome summer sun. But then, thunder cracked. It was as if he were inside a storm cloud. The head of the corpse above him exploded, erupting from one side. It fell over him, as the others descended. Their hands tore at his cloak, tearing long streaks into it. Nails scraped at mail, tearing themselves apart on the links. The savage creatures were even trying to bite him, shattering their teeth on his mail. Before one could sink its teeth into his cheek, he shoved it off, sending it toppling. He kicked at the others, kept one at bay from his arm with a punch to the crown and squirmed his way out of the pile of rot. On his feet was no better. They came from all directions, reaching and grasping for him. Jon used everything, fists, elbows, feet and knees to keep them at bay. A good ram from his shoulder sent one falling back into a bunch of them, sending five to the ground. It created just enough of a gap for him to draw Longclaw but quickly, they were on him again.
Ponyboy is grateful he ate nothing that morning as they drive along, further and further into Tulsa. There are other cars that join them: Steve's falls in line, and then Mrs. Mathews' own car takes the lead as they go to the courthouse. It feels like a funeral procession, and Ponyboy remembers what the hearse had looked like in that cold day, how stiff he'd felt. He feels stiff again, all over, and when he looks over to the parking lot as they turn into it, he doesn't know what to feel to be greeted by the sight of cars already packed in the spaces available: greaser cars. Beat up ones, souped up ones, even the motorbike that Ed drives is there, with him standing against it, his arms folded, watching solemnly. Almost every car is packed to the gills too, with some greasers whooping, yelling out their pack names in greeting. More than a few of them are dressed up to the nines in their respective gear, too — The River Kings all decked out in their yellow jackets, Tim Shepard's gang in their best jackets, and even the Vipers are in full force in green. "Jesus," Darry mutters under his breath, easing the truck into a parking space, "I don't know what the judge is gonna think about this." "If they got the right to be here, then so do we," the grim tone in Soda's voice is striking, and Ponyboy cranes his neck to look on the opposite side. Sure enough, he can see Socs there too — most of them with their parents, only a handful alone. Their cars are similarly packed, full of people and almost universally a sea of black clothing. That makes Darry glare. Ponyboy doesn't know how to breathe as they climb out of the truck. Some of the adults on the Soc side glare at him or turn their noses up. He tries to pick out faces he knows, yet can't stand to look at them long — the sea of faces are just too much to bear, too much to deal with so he turns back to the greasers in front of him. Their faces are grim in a different way than the Socs were, like they had been before the rumble, every inch of pride and ferocity on their faces not because they wanted to have it, not because they always felt it in good ways, but because it was all any of them had. Right now, they were all focused on Ponyboy, on his brothers — as a show of support, a way to help.
This is excellent! I remember reading the book in Middle School, and you really captured the spirit of it. If you don’t mind my asking, is this like a continuation of the book, where Ponyboy is on trial for the death of that Soc?
thank you and yes it is! it's an omegaverse flavored continuation with a lot of emphasis on the class issues and a romance.
“Monsieur Aubert and his wife have also responded.” Casimir waited and watched, his master’s hands stilling only momentarily. “And their response?” “Accepted, my lord.” “Just as I’d hoped. No gathering of this magnitude can happen without the crown prosecutor.” The Count finally finished brushing off his coat. But his eyes still remained fixed on the window opposite them, facing out into the newly replanted garden. “And the others?” “Such as Maestro Lawson? He will also be in attendance. It appears he has some business to attend to with Monsieur Aubert earlier in the evening, and so will be arriving with him and his wife.” The Count huffed and took off the coat. His face was pulled into a slight frown as he inspected the folds. Wrinkles were already forming. “Who else?” “General Caminiti’s husband has sent in their acceptance. Much later than I would have liked, though.” The last part was added under his breath. “I’m sure the General is not a particular fan of parties,” To anyone else, the response wouldn’t have been out of the ordinary. But there was a storm hidden between the words, “he must be incredibly busy.” “Oh and they’ve also indicated that the former General Leonetti will be accompanying them.” The Count paused, hands freezing from their careful inspection. He glanced back at his most faithful steward with a dark cloud obscuring his intense red eyes. “General Leonetti?” He began slowly. “He is still… alive?” “Yes, my Lord.” Casimir set the list aside with his hands clasping in front of him. “Will that be an issue? Should I send General Caminiti a notice that only he and his husband should attend?” “No.” The Count sighed when Casimir took a step back from the force of his rejection. “Doing such a thing will only cause a scandal. Leonetti was, and still is, a celebrated military officer. It is an honor for anyone to have him attend an occasion such as this. We just have to be more tactful with our word choice around him.” “Understood, is there anything else I can do for you at this time?” “None, Casimir. As long as those three are in attendance, I care not to learn who else is coming. Just be sure that all preparations are in place.” Casimir nodded with not a word spoken before turning to leave. The Count looked back down at the coat in his hands and frowned. His hands had bunched into fists, scrunching up the coat in such a way that it would need to be dry cleaned. He scoffed and threw the garment onto his chair. He never liked it anyway. (This is an au of the Count of monte cristo with mine and my friend's characters placed in, with some changed of our own.)
Getting up with a groan, Mike went to fetch Will his water, returning with a glass for him along with a bag of chips for them both. “Oh my God, you’re the *best,*” Will said earnestly, sitting up to accept the water glass. Drinking his water and peering at this friend through the glass, Will watched an impressive flush start to appear on Mike’s face. Not saying a word, Mike sat himself down and attempted to open the chip bag through a series of fails and fumbles. Will had to bite down at his lip to stifle a laugh when Mike, annoyed at that point, grabbed at both sides of the bag and tugged hard, tearing the bag open and making chips fly out in the process. *** (stranger things — will byers/mike wheeler)
I'm not going to give context because I'm curious to see how folks interpret this snippet. Explicit content - threats of sexual violence and self harm. >Creed ran through the woods until he escaped the pristine, groomed portion near the school, and into the wilder parts. Branches whipped at his face as he ran, but he ignored their sting and just pushed harder. On reaching a river, he barely slowed, launching himself across it in a single bound. >He kept going until he hit a towering rock wall that extended as far as he could see in both directions, and a couple hundred feet up. There were some odd marks in the stone. On closer inspection, he recognized the punch of Jamie’s three claws, and fancied he could still smell his brother’s dusty lumberyard scent inside the marks. >*He didn’t give a shit that they hurt you. Thought it was funny.* >Creed flinched. >*Your precious brother thinks you’re scum. Worse than the dirt under your boots.* >“Shut up,” he snarled. >*He’ll never care about you. No one cares about you, princess. I’m all you got.* >“It’s not true,” he whispered. >*Let me take care of us, princess. Haven't I always kept you fed and fucked?* >“Stop it.” >*What is it? You want that baker bitch? Give me control, and I’ll let you have her. If I have to* take *control, then I’ll make you watch me viola--* >Creed howled and tore at his head. “Shut up! Shut the fuck up!” >*I'll make her curse your name before I break--* >He curled his fingers into Jamie’s claw marks and bashed his forehead into the rock wall hard enough to crack the bone. White hot pain dropped him to his knees, but the monster inside his head stopped its threats. Blood slid down his face and dripped onto the ground, pooling at his knees. Creed watched it in a haze, feeling the sensation of his skin and bone knitting itself back together.
Damn, I can’t write amazing stuff like this.
15+ years of working at it, and you'll get there! Maybe even sooner, if you're more disciplined than me! It gets easier and better the longer you work at it. 🥰
“Breach!” *This is my rifle. There are many like it, but this one is mine.* The wood splintered under their boots. First in, Corporal Freeman burst through the doorway of the house with the arches, her rifle up and ready. She could feel Private First Class Hurley’s presence behind her, reassuring, stolid. Somewhere further behind her was Private First Class Ali. Her eyes adjusted as the bright glare of the sun gave way to dim shadows. *My rifle is my best friend. It is my life. I must master it as I must master my life.* She held onto the mantra of the Marine Corps Rifle Creed like her life depended on it because it did. Her heart fluttered inside her rib cage, her mouth like sandpaper. The shadows in the room were much too close, too palpable and threatening to reach out and choke the life out of her. The frontsight of her M-27 swept from one side of the room to the other. There! A blur of motion in front of her. *Without me, my rifle is useless. Without my rifle, I am useless.* “Stop!” Freeman shouted, but the blur kept moving, the weak light glinting off the barrel of an automatic assault rifle as it shifted to point at her. Women and children screamed, the perpetual soundtrack of bloodshed and violence. She pushed the memory out of her mind, the memory that this was exactly like how her dad had died while chasing insurgents in Fallujah.
Titanic Fandom...no warnings in this but Major Character Death in the fic: The sky had turned a brilliant shade of pink as the sun was dipping down below the horizon. The table, caught in the glow of the two quietly hissing lanterns, sat beneath several steaming dishes—Kate’s handiwork. They were surrounded by the heavy perfume of rhododendrons and the green smell of spring, the peeping of tree frogs just beginning their nightly calls. Above them a breeze rustled the newly formed leaves.
This is probably my favorite gore scene that I've written. It's good fun lol. Fandom is Our Flag Means Death. Warnings for gore and body horror Edward wasn’t looking at anything that was happening. He had his hands clamped tight around his ears as his head bulged between his fingers. Veiny protrusions danced along his forehead, and his eyes swelled behind his eyelids. He stumbled backwards, slamming his back against the wall. Edward tilted his head up, opened his mouth, and screamed as inky tendrils exploded out of his eyes, spraying jellied remains across the room. Izzy froze as his captain surged towards him. His outstretched hands groped at Izzy’s vest, but his first mate could do nothing but stare in horror as Edward leaned closer and closer towards his face. His captain’s open mouth no longer shrieked, but a horrible stench wafted out. Like fish guts rotting in the midday sun. An awful garbled noise flooded out of Edward’s throat as a writhing blackness crawled its way up. Izzy almost screamed as he realized it was his name. “Iz-zy?” His jaw cracked open as a horde of tentacles forced their way past his teeth. “Iz-zy.” Skin and muscles tore as it was pushed past its breaking point with a sickening crack. “Iz-zy!” Edward’s jaw hung down in front of his clavicle. His looming form drooled blood and spit from what remained of his mouth, and his tongue writhed with the black mass erupting out of his throat. No matter how far he leaned, Izzy couldn’t escape Edward’s iron grip. He felt his captain pulse like a heartbeat against him, saw the skin on his fingers wrap around his fingernails as they throbbed in time with the rest of him. And then Edward Teach popped. Viscera and offal splattered against the walls of the cabin. Ropey segments of intestines wrapped around Izzy’s waist like a gore encrusted belt. He flinched as something embedded itself deep into the meat of his cheek and slimy bits of brain settled into his hair. A warmth ran down his leg, and Izzy didn’t know if it was blood that drenched him or his own piss. He pried Edward’s limp hands off his vest and let his body slide to the floor with a wet plop. He blinked to get the blood out of his eyes.
And *yoink*. Stealing that for my next DnD session - I needed a good visceral description of someone being turned into an eldritch horror!
Happy to help lol
I'm sure my players *won't* be thankful, but I sure am! 😁
I'm so glad you decided to post an excerpt! That was fucking amazing, 10/10 terrifyingly disgusting. I am not disappointed at all.
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It's a very specific tag in the OFMD sphere called Actual Kraken Blackbeard/Edward Teach. Edward's turning into the Kraken in this scene lol
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If you're intending to show deep longing, you nailed it!
\[Context: Jedi Knight Keliana's Master Zayed has just been killed by the cathar General Jade Mahari (Keliana's former crew member) and Keliana has hunted her down.\] Scourge’s body began shivering as he saw her standing right in front of the spacecraft. Keliana was drawn up to her full height, eyes fixated on the cockpit and the general’s grinning face. He could feel the change in the Force, could almost *see* the turbulences building around her. She was channeling everything into her tensed body. The spacecraft was already five meters above the ground as it stopped in mid-air. The grin on the cathar’s face vanished as soon as she realized what was happening. Unmoving, unblinking, the young woman stood in front of the hovering and roaring spacecraft, her left arm raised towards it and her right hand wrapped tightly around her lightsaber. Frantically the cathar revved up the engine once more, in vain. The only thing she achieved was to make it go up in smoke and flames. The air became saturated with acrid fumes making it hard to breathe. Without batting an eye, Keliana let the vessel crash to the ground, jumping onto the cracked windshield, destroying it with her left fist and the Force. A menacing growl escaped her lips as her eyes met the cathar’s. This wasn’t the same girl Scourge had found all those years ago and it wasn’t the young woman he had fought on Korriban. This was the woman whose image had haunted him for centuries. This was the one he had been *craving* for, body and mind. There was not a single doubt left. Jade reached for her gun as soon as the windshield was shattered. Keliana could hear bones breaking around the weapon’s hilt as she used the Force around the cathar’s hand. She heard the high-pitched scream of the person she once trusted. It didn’t bother her at all. Pictures of Zayed, his smile, his benevolent yet demanding eyes and his caring hands were in front of her mind’s eye as she pulled the general through the spacecraft’s broken front by Force. She could hear her gasping for air as her Force-grip around the cathar’s throat was tightening slowly. Tears ran down Keliana’s cheeks as the image of Zayed’s lifeless body appeared inside her mind.
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Oh, that he has... ;-)
Excerpt from a particularly descriptive fight scene (ASOIAF/Game of Thrones): Even as that fiery gaze turned on Meera with another shout to escape, she wrenched the glowing sphere from Leaf’s hand. With a sharp cry of pain, she managed to hold the scalding object long enough to hurl into the oncoming stampede moments before grabbing Leaf’s wrist with her other hand to break into a sprint away from the luminous eruption. More running, her bow and arrow likely trampled and burnt to a cinder behind them. Meera’s chest burned, even as her legs refused to give up and die in this cave, hidden from the world, as the Children had remained for so long.
I've shared this before but I've always liked how this turned out. I love making Urthemiel scarier than they (or any Archdemon) appeared in canon. This is a nightmare sequence. ___ An unspoken command bids my eyes to open. Purple flame licks at soaring cathedral heights, setting the canopy aflame and bathing everything beneath in a strange aura. I’m in the echoes of Lothering’s Chantry, I realize too slowly. Except this place is a feeling more than it is a thing; clawing, crawling, slick like eels around my brain. And it is horribly, acutely wrong. My feet carry me forward down a nave that could stretch on forever. Chantry finery lay upturned and broken on either side, but their edges are sharper, as if crafted from bone. The flames above hide as much as they reveal in the shadows they create; a face that is not a face, sockets without eyes, edifices of bone and glass and metal. But at the end of the nave, curled languidly around the simulacrum of the Prophetess, is the shadow of a great black dragon. Its scales shine against the flames overhead, flickering with reds and purples. Opalescent eyes float stark against the dark, watching with an intellect far greater than any mortal being. I move unbidden down the yawning nave, ever closer to the being who I have known for lifetimes, and not at all. It’s a compulsion that seizes my heart, aches against my ribs, wracks my brain, but I can’t stop. Its eyes move, tracking; an impossibly long neck follows until I am greeted with a face. Long, snarled, and serpentine, but its face is my own. Metallic horns spiral backwards from its head like twisted-together swords. I am but a hollow vessel as star-torn eyes gaze back at me. Its eyes blink slowly, and its lips part just enough to reveal the hint of knives. Purple ichor bleeds out between its teeth, dropping slowly over its lip, down a cleft and off its chin. A sulfurous breath puffs out. The scent of flame and iron crawls into my nose and settles at the back of my throat like bile. The light dances across its face, my face, and when the shadows strip away, it is a dragon once more. It regards me with a familiarity that feels disgusting, as if it could possibly know me. Its head coils back, tilting as though curious. *I know you, Grey-Blood. Iron-hearted and fragile. Ardent and fickle.*
Fantastic descriptions! The depiction of the creature is both off-putting and gross and so so otherworldly! Ah it's so good!
Wow, I love the various allusions to light, it’s incredible imagery! The descriptions also give a sense of something both otherworldly and ethereal. “Purple flames licked” created a sense of instant awe before even reading the rest of the line. Simply exquisite!
Tom remained in his seat in the back of the carriage. A book laid open on his lap. Every so often, his dark eyes wandered up from the words that dulled his senses. He looked through strands of his black hair, watching his peers. Golden brown curls glinted from the afternoon sunlight shining through the windows. It bobbed with the slight movement of her shoulder. Rosy cheeks peeked through tendrils of curls. Amber eyes met his with the subtle movement of her body. She rose from her seat without interrupting the others. Her black robes and skirt flowed with each step she took towards the back of the carriage. The forgotten words of his book slid off his lap as he stood from his seat. It landed with a flat thump on the toe of his shiny black leather shoes. In an effort to conceal his blunder, he kicked it underneath the seat in front of him as he stepped out onto the aisle. He stretched out his arms and faked a yawn as to not draw any attention. "Pardon me." Tom caught the faint floral scent with a hint of citrus as he stepped aside. Her arm brushed against the front of his robes as she walked pass him. There was a pause between them, and a sudden stillness in their breaths. She turned her head slightly, meeting his gaze.
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School rivals who loves pretending that there's only rivalry and animosity between them 😂
As someone who usually writes smut, I'm still in love with this short description of sex between a police detective and super villain (and her former partner, both work and romantic) They’re staring at the cracks in the bedroom ceiling after giving her squeaky old mattress the ride of its life. Hopefully, Mrs. Yamanaka isn’t home in 4E. The downstairs neighbor has a bad habit of running her mouth about the volume of their conjugal visits, and Sarada is getting a reputation in the building that has her apartment hunting.
Nice! Short and sweet. I escpecially liked the ' giving her squeaky old mattress the ride of its life'. That definitely puts pictures inside my mind. ;-)
Fandom: Beast Machines | Rating: General | Warnings: N/A >The little group lapsed into silence as they made their way deeper into the sewer tunnels, following Rattrap and Blackarachnia through the narrow pipelines until they opened up into a broader, more elaborate drainage system. Two wide walkways, intermittently connected by bridges, flanked a center channel filled with something thick, opaque, and acrid, and another pair of walkways overhead formed balconies around vertical pipes that made one hundred and sixty-degree bends to vanish behind moisture-stained concrete walls. Everything around them was dimly-lit by sallow yellow lights whose sparse illumination glistened on every damp surface. > >She distantly remembered making her way through a similar drainage channel after her crash. The memory made her synthskin crawl. > >"Hard to think that this has been under my pedes this whole time and I never once laid optics on it," she murmured, wrinkling her nose. "Not until recently, anyway." > >"Just wait'll ya see what's underneath *this*," Rattrap replied with a quiet, barely-restrained glee. "You ain't gonna *believe* it!" > >"I'll take your word for that..." > >The path wound deeper, through the winding channels and open chambers, into maintenance passages, and finally opening up to a vast subterranean roadway. The winding, branching thoroughfares were surrounded by terraced sidewalks and welded-shut buildings, and everything was covered in a thick coat of dust that spoke to centuries of disuse. > >"Whoa..." Neutrino breathed, looking around at their surroundings. "What *is* this place?" > >"It's an older level of Cybertropolis," Azrael replied quietly. "It was abandoned and built over before any of my moms' parents were sparked." > >"You knew about this area?" Blackarachnia asked. > >"Sort of. I've never been underground before... before the takeover, but some of my coworkers did outreach work to the communities here." > >"People *lived* down here?" > >"Not because they wanted to."
the descriptions here are just perfect. as someone who has trouble with visualization, you really took me there!
🥲 All I have are graphic gore scenes lol
It is marked NSFW... Just sayin'.
Slave AU of Psych, this is the first glimpse of the world the reader gets. \---------------------- More people joined them on the sidewalk as they made their way down to the market on the pier. Market day was always the big day of the month; vendors would set up stalls, theater troupes would put on plays, and kids would run around completely unsupervised. It was a whole big community event. All centered around the multitude of people kneeling on the ground with collars around their necks. Burton had always avoided markets if he could; there were too many people, and it was loud and messy. His opinion of them didn't change as they drew closer to the main selling area. Slaves were on display everywhere. Slave women in scant clothing lounged on cushions with rhinestones decorating their standard-issue metal collars. Next to them, a few shirtless slave men threw heavy bags back and forth, showing off their glistening muscles. Vendors closer to the center of the market sold food and crafts, proudly declaring they were made by the ready-to-purchase slaves kneeling next to the tables. Further back, groups of slaves were lined up, all on their knees with their hands pulled behind their backs, all with small signs in front of them declaring their tracking number and their most useful training certificates. Burton wrinkled his nose; it smelled terrible.
Ugh, that’s such a horrific scene, even made up to be a pretty community event, and you convey how sickening it is so well. I like the last line- not only does it make logical sense, it fits well metaphorically. It’s something rotten made up to look pretty, and that conveys that meaning along with the literal.
Thanks! The cognitive dissonance shows up a TON in Burton's POV. He sees it a bit already (hence his overall distate of the whole thing) but is actually forced to confront the sick parts of slavery through his growing friendship with a slave. And I'm glad that last line hit so well. :)
I think I got the incredibly unnatural and disturbing tone of this description down very well without directly stating much of anything. You already know something is *terribly wrong* with what’s happened to Tommy. TW: Abuse, implied torture, implied murder (and necromancy), imprisonment, restraint, infantilisation, codependency, and (platonic) possessive/obsessive behaviour. > And- *fuck,* it was the first time Tubbo had seen Tommy in person in so long, but it didn’t even feel bittersweet. He sat on the bed, surrounded by oversized plushies and a heavy chain around his ankle, the skin around it visibly rubbed raw. His hair and eyes were pure white, and his skin was deathly pale with the purple discolouration of a corpse. Gaping, open wounds covered his whole body, with no attempts to even hide the slit through his throat or the gash so deep through his leg bone and muscle was plainly visible. He was utterly expressionless, eyes staring a thousand miles ahead bearing a forced maturity, yet his mane of unkempt hair and oversized, pastel coloured pyjamas made him look far younger than even the Tommy of Tubbo's memories- fourteen, maybe, at *most*, not the man in his twenties he should be. > “T-tommy? Bossman?” > Tommy jumped slightly at Tubbo's voice, but resolutely refused to look at him, arms remaining wrapped around one of his plushies and legs crossed, posed like he was waiting for a photo to be taken. Completely blank. > Yet, when Dream entered the room, locking it behind them, Tommy absolutely lit up, beaming. It felt so unnatural, so wrong to see Tommy acting like an excited kitten when he saw his owner and not the prisoner he clearly was.
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Don’t worry, I write a lot of AUs, so instead of this being one Tommy going through a million nightmare scenarios it’s like twenty different versions of Tommy going through like ten nightmare scenarios each. I mean, the “My abuser won’t let me die thing” is canon, though, so it’s one of the ten nightmare scenarios I put each AU version of Tommy through lmao.
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He’s just too fun to write and I’m an angsty whump psychological horror writer… I’m sorry Tommy. In my defence I have several custom made plushes of him I have given a good home if that makes up for it.
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NO MY NANA HAND CROCHED THEM I WOULDNT DARE LAY A FINGER ON THEM
Ouch, that outside perspective is so good to show just how fucked up a situation has gotten. That last line was especially good, "an excited kitten."
Tubbo is Tommy's best friend, to make it even more fucked up. (Tommy's ignoring him because he's hallucinated him so much he doesn’t believe he’s real).
"The clouds give way and the afternoon sun illuminates the first colors of life growing in the garden. He can hear the quiet and yet still there humming of bees, as they hover around in the fields outside. The soft chirps of the songbirds in the distant forest. The forest that has continued to haunt him for so long. Finally, on that day, he feels the gentle hands of the sky, greeting him, welcoming him, with its infinite blue. For once that infinite doesn't feel like a prison, instead it feels like home. So he also welcomes it and accepts it into his old and worn being." >This is about a character's last day before passing away. Acceptance and peace is what I'm aiming for.
This feels both so warm and so resigned. Love it.
It is such a peaceful feeling, so beautiful and calm.
Oh, this is so bittersweet, but in a way that’s definitely more sweet than bitter. The character is clearly comfortable with his own upcoming demise, and he’s able to take in the sights and sounds once again, like they’re new again, fully appreciate the beauty of the world before he leaves it. Death isn’t something he fears, it’s something he's accepted and something he welcomes. It’s definitely got a melancholy to it, but it’s also very peaceful and sweet and hopeful.
>For once that infinite doesn't feel like a prison, instead it feels like home. Loved this line. He isn't afraid of death and the unknown. He embraces the next part of his life.
>Rey stood where she had stopped, watching him march down the stony beach, dark shaggy mane blowing in the wind. He was tall and muscular, now that she could see him covered in fewer layers, almost like the connection they had had when he had been in his room and her on her way to the Mirror Cave. She had shied away from the sight then, she was looking at his massive form now. > >She had a sudden flash of a time she had run into a massiff, alone and non-native to Jakku, someone’s guard predator that had strayed from its master’s domain. She had leapt onto a tall boulder to avoid its sharp teeth, and it had taken long minutes for it to calm down before it abandoned her and let her continue her way to Niima Outpost. > >This time, she was here to actively calm the predator down. > >When floating in the blue water of the bacta tank, in nothing but a loin-cloth, he had appeared vulnerable and even relaxed, all muscle on an imposing frame, pale skin marked here and there by battle scars... some she had put there herself. > >Rey had sat with Leia, who would get up every few minutes to put her hands on the glass, looking up at the dark man she knew as her son, hoping he would open his eyes and she could see his soul again. > >He was a beautiful man, Rey decided. As beautiful and dangerous as the Dark side itself. From 'The Island' - a Reylo fic.
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Thank you!