(Username pronounced: ‘Pen-den-kai’. But I don’t really care how you say it ♡)
She/her or he/him (fem leaning, no they/them)
Pretty open to most ships, multi-shipper
I plan to use this blog to yap about Creepypasta/Marble Hornets stuff, including(but not limited to): My AU, Headcanons, OC, fan writing(fics), and more!
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Please don’t try to become close with me. We can interact and talk through my “Ask me”, but i’m not willing to be anyone’s close friend or more on here, just looking to have fun and talk creepypasta with fellow fans! (Also don’t message me unless it’s for a specific reason and you tell me first. If you just message me “hello” or something similar, I won’t respond or i’ll assume you’re a bot/scammer.)
trial post.. hi guys.. i’ve been dead for a bit but writers block has been genuinely hell & i’ve been getting back into crp😓😓😓 .. i will TRY to post more.. ive got like 3 unfinished drafts for u guys LMAO
Jack Nyras who will never see the world the same again.
Who's eyes were gouged out by the followers of the Black God — of Chernobog — the deity of all the evil that hides in darkness. The deity that doesn't let His slaves exist in light.
They slit his sternum, cracked his ribs to reveal the epitome of life that was his heart and dug it out, filled the cavities with scorching tar. Filled his hollow eyes. They didn't relent even despite how much he thrashed. How his pleas grew hoarse from how he screamed.
They said it'd be over quick. That there is no point in begging — that it'll all be okay because their God would gift him with something beautiful and new.
And He did.
It's bigger, black — pumps slower to accommodate his monstrous new size. Leads carbon dioxide to fuel his cells instead, he breathes out oxygen.
It's all twisted and wrong. He's become the opposite of what he once was.
Jack used to be sweet. An empathetic medical student, smart and full of life. Now he's a towering, cruel husk of a man with ashen skin and three tongues. Harming those he vowed to save. But he couldn't care less about people's health anymore — not after having gone through the worst kind of torture.
And he doesn't have a choice either. The cult took everything from him. His life, his vision. His normal, human appetite.
At the very least he got to take his revenge. They had no idea that Jack was never meant to be the sacrifice. Instead, they became the first taste of what is damned to be his only form of sustenance.
He's disgusting. A monster.
Which is why he doesn't understand why you just sat there and watched in awe as he devoured the man that followed you into the woods. Ripped him to shreds with his bare hands. A crazy ex, he later found out.
He was going to kill you next. Head tilted, looking at you like a predator at prey as he thumped his black tail against the ground to 'see' you better. Echolocation.
But then you stood from the grass, brushed the dirt from your bruised knees and approached him first. Got on your tiptoes to plant a kiss of gratitude on his cheek.
His filthy, bloodstained cheek.
He couldn't move. Frozen like a beast in headlights trying to figure out if his mind had played a trick on him.
But it didn't. And he had spared you that night.
It's a mystery why you came back on the second. Searching for him as you stumble over dead roots like a baby deer. Carrying a picnic basket with a fresh liver from the local butcher as a gift.
He should've killed you then. Should've killed you all the other nights as well.
But again, he didn't. And he's never been more glad to fight against his instincts.
Jack never thought this new heart was capable of love. Never thought anyone would be capable of loving him either.
But here you both are. In bed on a summer morning. Together. Sleeping with your pinkies interlinked because the heat is too overwhelming to hold each other. Your gentle, rhythmic breaths reveal your face every few seconds. He thinks you've never looked more beautiful.
And he thinks you shouldn't be with someone as revolting as him.
Last night he tried to convince you how he hadn't always been this ugly. That he used to be normal looking, even handsome.
He hoped his words would make you think better of him. But you just shook your head with a delicate smile and pulled him into bed instead instead. Showed him how there was no need to worry about any of that.
Jack Nyras who will never live in a world with light again. And he's okay with it as long as it's filled with you instead.
𑁍ࠬܓ
credits to my fav american freak @habitism for the carbon dioxide hc. actual genius over here
summary: A story in which you live as a man-eating beast in the forest. You're entirely alone — relying on your sharp thinking and even sharper teeth to keep yourself alive. Until you meet them. You refuse to be a slave again. You fight and claw your way out countless times. They're sick of it. Sick of you. But none of you have a choice. You're in this together wether you like it or not. And you'll learn to like it soon enough.
pairings: tim wright, brian thomas, ticci toby and kate the chaser x reader
wc: 5.5k
tw: needles, vomiting
masterlist, ao3
The needle glints as sunlight grazes stainless steel.
Countless other tools surround it on the small metal tray beside the woman but the syringe is the one to really drag the unease out of your gut.
You've always hated these checkups.
Weekly tests of your reflexes, bodily functions and changes in height and weight. Piercing skin with those dreadful needles as they take what they need.
But you never complain. Never grimace, never flinch — you haven't learned to express yourself yet.
All you know is to be still and stare — eyes wide and unblinking as you let them roam around every thing that steals your interest.
Currently fixated on the sharp tools laid out on blue medical paper.
That unmistakable scent of sterility, antiseptics and discomfort curls in your nose as she finally stops writing on her clipboard and turns back to you. The leather of the stool under her squealing.
"Hold out your arm." Her gruff voice commands.
You do as told. Movements stiff and soulless like a machine programmed to obey. She takes your wrist in her hand and pulls your arm towards her, angling it to face up. The plastic glove cool against your soft skin as it grips you roughly, making you want to pull back on instinct. You don't.
She reaches for the antiseptic spray, uncaps it and sprays it on the crease of your elbow. You don't flinch from the sudden cold, even as she wipes it down. As the dread stirs in your stomach.
You watch her pick up the syringe, holding it up to check it under the bright light. It stings in your eyes as the white furniture and walls reflect it back twice as harsh. You ignore the urge to blink, instead focusing on how she holds your arm in place and moves it closer.
It always happens so fast, you can barely even hold your breath in anticipation before she's already shoving the thin sharpness into you. A hot sting blooming from the wound as it pierces delicate skin, then vein, then stays still.
You don't look away when the glass container begins filling up with beautiful red as you feel your blood get sucked out of you.
It hurts. She's not being considerate at all. But the slow swirling of the thick liquid is too captivating for you to try and peel your eyes away. Color so deep and alluring you might get lost.
These tests never get easier. You wish they would just stop all together. Yet it's been three months since you came to life in this unusual body and you're once again sitting on this dreaded examination table with a pulsing arm and just a little bit less of your bodily fluids.
Three months with memories not quite yours and one week since you've felt what you learned to be hunger for the first time.
An unnatural emptiness in the pits of your stomach, growing vaster and harsher the more time passes. You haven't told anyone yet. Not the nuns who braid your hair, not the janitor, not even him. You know you should tell at least him.
You've never kept a secret, know it's wrong and downright sinful. The guilt has been eating away at the core of your being.
But heaven knows you can't stop yourself from watching with an envious heart when someone takes a bite of their meal. From fantasizing what it would be like to taste something sweet. Something good and filling. Something that doesn't taste disgusting.
It's not like they've never tried to feed you before — you've tasted all sorts of foods, cooked by the so-called best chefs around, working for hours at a time to come up with something to please you with.
But it all just tasted putrid. Foul like something rotting from the inside out. The smells alone were enough to want to make you turn your nose and press your lips shut when the fork was lifted to your mouth.
You never did.
But even on the rare occasion where the food didn't taste completely despicable, you always ended up hunched over yourself, emptying your stomach with a burn in the back of your throat.
The syringe is nearly filled to the brim by the time the nurse is done with you — pulling it out with far too little care as footsteps from the hallway become more and more resounding the closer they get to the room.
A weak throb blooms from your hand. Down your arm.
The door opens with a creak.
"Are you almost finished?" The Father begins, walking towards her in long strides to stand looking down — eyes not even taking a second to glance at you. "The prayer starts in an hour, the sisters won't have enough time to prepare this way."
"We are done. But—"
"Good." He hums, not caring to listen to another word as he takes the clipboard out of the woman's hands to flip through the results. "So get it changed."
It. That's all anyone has ever called you in this short life time. Because that's all you are — all you'll ever be.
A thing.
A gift to some inconceivable, holy being. Something to take control of, to do with whatever one pleases. Something that's not allowed to show emotion.
"Wallace. I have concerns."
The Father begins making his way towards the door again as his cold brown eyes scan the messy ink before flicking to the nurse and narrowing in skepticism.
"Why? Everything is as it should be." He replies. His words slow — every letter pronounced strongly with a pristine accent. He's always had such a particular way of speech.
The nurse turns to you, face pinched in worry. Unease. Her eyes are trained on the line of your sealed lips.
"Everything but the teeth." She practically sighs the words out as she pulls the blue latex gloves off.
"This again?"
The throb evolves to a sting now. In your abdomen. Arms. Your hand. Yet you stay still all the same. Face neutral.
"I-I mean, with all due respect," She reaches up to your mouth, gripping your jaw with both hands and forcing her thumb past your lips, opening your mouth to show the oddities growing inside. To brush over the pointed tips of your molars. They've been getting sharper lately. Aching. "If you just look at how—"
"Are you doubting my creation?"
The words are bitter, laced with a venom you know sent a chill down her spine. Her fingers stilling against your mouth, her own lips parted as she gapes up at him. Eyebrows twitching with nerves she's fighting to hide.
"No, Fath-"
"Are you doubting me?" His voice gets louder, head tilted up in superiority. "I carry God's will—"
"Of— of course not! I mean— Of course I'm not!" The nurse becomes more frantic, fingers gliding across your teeth harder as she digs her hands further into your mouth. Your spit is pooling, tongue involuntarily brushing salty skin. "But if you would just feel how sharp they've—"
He throws the clipboard to the desk with a loud clang and she flinches. One second of an involuntary twitch against your teeth is all it takes for skin to split.
A pained hiss. She yanks her hands out of your mouth. The Father pays her no mind.
"It was His hand that guided mine, His empty gaze that fell upon me as I worked day and night," He refuses to listen. Voice booming as it reverberates off the white walls. "And here you are. Questioning His offering?"
Metal is the first thing you taste when her blood coats your tongue. The first contact with what will soon become your favorite flavor.
Slightly salty, a hint if iron. You swallow it down far too quickly.
It tastes good. You didn't think it'd taste this good. You didn't know something existed that tasted this good.
Tongue running over the molar to savor the remnants, eyes finding her bleeding wound already being bandaged.
And as you're watching the white bandages stain red, a craving starts to grow from deep within. Unfamiliar. Demanding. You're suddenly too aware of the emptiness caving in your stomach.
You want to taste that again.
The Father finally snaps out of his tirade and the room is silent for a moment as he realizes what happened. As his gaze finally, slowly lands on you.
You who's feeling a small drop of blood dribble down your parted lips. Who's hand darts out to catch it. Wild eyes zeroing in on the beautiful color coating your finger, about to push it back to your eager mouth before he seizes your wrist.
He says nothing but his eyes betray him. Like curtains pulled aside just a hint to reveal the flicker of uncertainty behind.
He knows there is something wrong with you. He can feel it. But he won't admit it — can't allow it. He cannot afford to fail.
The Father's grip tightens. Like maybe if he squeezed hard enough he can will all the growing sin out of you.
The pain spreads from your wrist to bloom throughout your entire body. It tingles at the tips of your fingers, burns in your torso. There is a faint ringing filling the silence of the room, getting louder and louder.
It hurts so much. Why does everything hurt so much? It's overwhelming. Your throat burns, you feel like you're about to—
─── ₊ ⊹˚
Bile forces itself up your throat as you wake with a wheeze.
It splatters to the floor with a wet sound — you had leaned over the bedside just in time. Your head is ringing as you empty half your guts on the planks, coughing, retching, tears forming. Spit and snot dripping.
A heaving breath once it's over — gulping down what's stuck in your throat.
Your eyes sting as you force them open. The unfamiliar room spins, blurry vision slowly clearing up as you remember where you are.
You sniff up the snot trickling down from your nostrils and the familiar smell of death finds your lungs.
The remnants of what once was a man lay still and forgotten only few feet away from you. His insides, his fluids — they stain the brown wood almost black, seep between the cracks of the floorboards.
Disgusting. Maybe you should have at least dumped the body outside, you think. But the pain flaring from your wrist and also everywhere else is quick to distract you.
You're sweating. The sheets damp and clinging onto you as you peel yourself off the mattress and wipe your dirty mouth with the back of your non-hurting hand.
Careful to avoid the remains of yesterdays meal, you get up and make your way to the sink by the kitchen corner on half-steady legs.
It's not unusual for you to vomit after over-consuming. It's something you do a lot. You can't help yourself — Indulging. Feeding into your never ending hunger. Not the physical sensation but rather the desire for the hunt. For the rush of adrenaline it brings you when you rip someone open.
This week alone you've eaten far more than what is usual, especially for winter.
If only you got to add four more bodies to your forever-growing pile of sin, you think as you turn on the steady flow of water. You wonder how sweet victory would have tasted. Being the one to stand looking down at them instead.
Normally your body's already absorbed all the nutrients it needs to keep you going for another month, so you won't feel malnourished so soon despite emptying everything.
Still, you're a little sad it all went to waste.
Your wrist stings as you hold it underneath the freezing water. Covered in your blood, the skin around your thumb slowly reveals an ugly, discolored purple as all the red gets washed away.
There are cuts littered all across your arm and hand. You can feel them burning on your torso. On your jaw. The side of your head bruising from all the times someone's slammed something into it in the past few days. Your ribs hurt. Everything hurts.
You slip out of your poncho and peel your dirty tunic off, now bare and exposed as you spend the next twenty minutes leaned over the sink, picking dirt out of your wounds and halfheartedly rinsing them.
The water runs down your partially naked body, mixing with the red and seeping drops into the waistband of your pants. You don't care. You keep scrubbing and picking at the crusted blood until it all comes off.
Not using as much care as you probably should in favor of leaving this foul scented place behind quicker. You might just puke again if you don't soon.
When you deem yourself clean enough, you grab the rag sitting on the counter and pat yourself dry. Avoiding the already healing wounds.
You can practically feel the broken bone in your hand slowly snap back into place as it regenerates. It's a good thing that you got to eat last night. Without it, you wouldn't have nearly as much energy as you do. Your injuries wouldn't have healed as quick.
You take the clothes you left on the table in the middle of the room and throw them back on. Shuffling to the mask you left beside the body, you take the handmade straps and secure it back over your bruised face where it belongs.
You reach for the handle of the door when a loud buzzing sound cuts through the quiet.
Repeated, blaring vibrations coming from the body.
You kneel beside it — holding your breath because of the smell — and check the pockets of the pants.
A phone call. With the words 'Don't pick up' as the caller ID.
Right, you do recall the man telling whoever he was talking to that he'll call them back.
Amusement splits your face in the form of a toothy grin.
That won't happen any time soon though. You wonder how they'll feel when they come looking. When they see his chest caved in, ribs cracked open and his heart missing. His rotting skin melting into the floorboards, his bite mark-ridden flesh. The flies collecting.
You drop the phone without another care and take your leave.
Better get out while you still can.
The door creaks as you push your way outside. The cold chipping at your skin.
It's early. The sun well hidden behind a thick layer of morning fog — her luminous rays blurred. Only the tips of the white trees break through from up here. The sparkling snow so bright you have to squint to see anything.
A soft breeze flows with the wind as you take the stairs down. They groan under your careful steps.
You're still somewhat shaken from yesterdays events. Still hurting, head faintly ringing. But the feeling of freedom gives you the energy you need to keep going. It fills you with vigor, satisfaction.
You escaped. And fast too.
If only you got to take them down in the process. If only you got to mutilate them the way you did with that man. You wonder if their taste would still linger in your throat.
You reach the bottom of the steps. Your eyes land on the thin snow at your feet, a red color poking out beneath a fresh layer of white.
It's your tracks. Thank the heavens that it still snowed a bit throughout the night. The blood is still visible, but only if your eyes are sharp.
You really need to leave this place quick, you think with a cringe as you disappear into the trees.
You don't even know where to go or if you're near your home, yet you pick a direction and begin your wandering.
Surely you're not too far, right?
You quickly realize just how wrong you are when you spend the next hour aimlessly walking around, trying to find something, anything recognizable to show you the way back.
You're not familiar with these woods at all. This must be an entirely different part of Appalachia — which makes sense because the region is huge. You're not even sure you're still in Alabama.
You know your home like the back of your hand, able to recognize where you are by a branch alone. By the position of stars. Even if you couldn't — you've left your mark in the shape of your claws on bark. You've spent miles and miles exploring them. You know your way.
But this place is entirely new to you, which must mean you're close at all. It might be best to abandon the possibility of going home entirely. Start fresh.
At least you didn't have any personal belongings to leave behind. Except for the pouch they took. Curse them.
The birds chirp loudly as if agreeing with you. Nature lively in its sounds. The wind carries the cold to rustle at leaves and hum in gentle soothing, curling around your ankles as you roam the forest.
Snow begins to descend between the trees in a slow dance. Not much of it, just enough to make the woodland sparkle.
It's almost peaceful.
Then, a feeling. Something tingling in the tips of your still-aching hands. Something telling you to hide.
You don't question it — letting instincts take hold of your autonomy as you climb one-handed into the nearest pine tree without a second of doubt. Sinking into the needles and out of sight.
A beat goes by.
You strain your ears and keep your eyes sharp until you hear a faint pair of footsteps. So quiet you almost missed them.
Leaves rustle as they get louder, the person closer. Then your eyes find her as she emerges from the bushes.
The masked woman — Kate.
How on earth did they find you already? You've been walking for so long, they shouldn't be here! Did that creature— did He do this? Bring them closer to you so they can capture you again?
Anger bubbles in your veins. It flows to your heart and spreads throughout your entire being. Your eyebrows furrow as you glare down at her.
When will He learn already?! You've fought so hard to be free — you refuse to be enslaved! You don't care how much it hurts, if it'll be your downfall, you won't let go of your freedom.
Your nails sink into the branch with frustration. Your heart pounding in your ears. She doesn't notice — her head turns as she's looking around, yet she doesn't find you.
A shuffle of leaves breaks the silence, many feet away from the tree you're hiding in. From up here you can barely see it through the thick fog. A hare.
The moment of tension is over before you know it as you watch her chase after the sound. Gone again.
You take a few minutes to wait until you're sure she won't return before dropping down again with a silent huff. Your feet throb from the fall.
One last look is cast in her direction before you take your leave the opposite way as quietly as possible. Keeping your eyes sharp as you check behind every tree you pass. Ears focusing on every little sound of wildlife.
The snow begins getting heavier as you spend the time walking. Landing on the dirt under your feet, the fur hood of your poncho. Gradually coating it all in white. The holes let the cold slip past the dark fabric to bite at the skin beneath.
You don't have a concrete plan on what to do now except walk. Walk until your legs give out — until you're sure they won't find you again.
You just hope the fog clears up by tonight. You'll try to guess your overall location by the position of the stars, but going home is out of the question either way. They've already gotten close enough to discovering it before. It's too risky.
Finding a new area to live in will take days. Maybe weeks. But it's not the first time you've been hopeless and it's necessary.
The sun is high up as she hides behind the clouds to look down at the earth. The wind whistling in a quiet rumble as it carries thick flakes of snow to flow down through the mist.
The thin path you're walking on leads between the trees and to an open, white meadow.
A herd of white tailed deer are feasting on the grass sticking out. Five of them.
You freeze in your tracks.
Your heart stings at the sight. A pinch of jealousy.
You've been alone for so long. Never once having been equal. To anyone. You used to be treated as an object on the daily. Either a spectacle or a slave. On the rare case you were even pitied—
But you don't want pity. You never wanted to be seen as weak. Pathetic — or stupid!
The buck standing in the middle of the herd raises his head, looking around as if alerted by your inner monologue.
You just wanted to be more than something. More than some thing.
His eyes land on you and he stiffens. Staring at you glaring at him. Your head is ringing.
You got what you wanted in the end. You're feared now. Formidable. People don't dare getting in your path because you're already ripping them to shreds before they can even think of it.
More of them look up at you. Motionless like they're trying to estimate the danger you could bring.
But a small part of you has yet to be satisfied. You're still alone. Still have no one to talk to.
One by one they begin hopping up the field after a few moments. The buck stays to look back at you for a little while longer before following the others. Disappearing into the fog and leaving you to be by yourself again. It's almost funny. You're standing here — the skull of their kind covering your face, yet you're the one that feels the hurt.
A sigh escapes your lips. Deep like you're trying to release all the bad feelings out of your chest and into the winter air.
You step off the path and continue the hike. Walking on the open ground would be dangerous, foolish. You'll go around by the treeline instead.
The rustling of the small critters that reside here, the wind brushing leaves, the singing birds — it all stops out of nowhere. Dead quiet.
As if the forest itself is holding it's breath in anticipation. All the fauna silent, hiding.
You turn around, unnerved by the abrupt silence. The only audible thing now is the dull, quiet ringing in the back of your mind.
You don't see anyone.
Then you face ahead again.
Only to be back where you stood just a second ago, the opening of the trees revealing the same meadow.
What?
The empty field stares back at you in twisted silence. Goosebumps form on your skin within an instant. As if your body is preparing you for unforeseen doom.
This… this is stupid. Surely you're not in the right mind. This isn't real.
Stubborn, you step off the path again, more determined. Your feet carry you further than before — you refuse to turn around this time.
A glance between the trees. Then you blink and—
Again.
You're back again.
The sound of your own pulse rumbles in your ear like a tidal wave. Your breathing quickens.
This is wrong.
The snow rains down stronger — it's so hard to see anything and the trees seem like they're curling around the meadow on purpose. As if showing you that the only way to go is in.
You can't do this.
Your hands are trembling, sweating — all the pain pushed down like it's the least of your worries. The hairs on your neck raise in alarm. Every fiber of your being is telling you to get away.
A cautious step backwards. Then two. Then you're turning around again — stumbling, running.
But you trip.
You land on your hands and knees in the snow — hoof tracks right under your face. You look up.
You're in the middle of the field this time.
A familiar feeling creeps up your throat. Tight, uncomfortable. Mind-numbing terror. The kind that makes your vision blur around it's edge. The kind that only God Himself can bring out of you.
It's then that you realize that the deer didn't leave because of you.
The ringing in your head is like white noise. So loud it's almost silent. Even your own heaving breath gets drowned out in it. Your frantic heartbeat.
The fog clouds the edge of the forest. So thick you can't see past it anymore — like this field right here is the only place on earth.
Like you're trapped.
Your eyes are darting around the vast white. Pupils dilated to see better — so you can react quicker.
You know He's here. You can feel it.
Then He appears. In the blink of an eye — like a glitch in reality. One second you're staring at a thick mist of nothingness and the next—
Him.
An icy, almost painful chill runs through your entire body. You're so cold — you've never felt so cold.
He stands tall before you, only few feet away. His form towering. You try to look up at him but it's just long, endless strips of black, gangly limbs.
The mask has never felt more restricting. You can't see the end of Him.
Moments pass and the ringing only gets louder, more painful. You have to do something. You have to move.
"L-leave me…" A whimper. "Leave me alone—" The words scrape out. You can barely hear your own voice.
You know that begging is useless, you know He can read your thoughts. You need to get up.
You're so used to being on the other side. To be the one to ignite fear. To be the predator instead of prey. But now you can't stop the shaking, your chest hurting.
You don't think clearly when your hand reaches under the neck of your shirt and wraps around the cool beads — yanking the necklace out to grip the silver cross tight.
You don't think when you start reciting in a whisper. Old habits die hard.
"He-heavenly Father, I seek your forgiveness!" The prayer comes out shaky, unstable. You squeeze your eyes shut. "I have sinned against you, I have been too far from you—"
The ringing is unbearable and it hurts. Like the flesh beneath your very skin is being electrocuted. A hot tingling sensation spreading everywhere.
"I have lived a-according to my own will, please Lord, cover my shame!" You don't even realize what you're doing right now. But you haven't felt this fear of God for years — your body's scrambling for ways to protect itself as if on autopilot. Running your mouth for you.
You never knew what His concrete plan for you was, you don't want to know.
"Do not let your wrath come upon these peo— me!" You messed it up. The words practically engraved on your tongue, it feels wrong to say them differently this time. "Upon me! Do not take me, please, I beg of you!"
You lick your lips in an attempt to wet your dry mouth. You feel nauseous as you're kneeling before Him. And buzzing with the urge to submit.
"Please."
There is no use in begging. You know you can't escape this forever. You should just give it up already and make Him stop this feeling.
Your head hurts so much. A drop of wetness leaks from your nose.
Let it into your mind if you want this to stop. All these uncomfortable sensations, the suffering. Let Him take full control — He'll take it all away.
It drips down lower — between your lips. Your favorite taste.
But that's not you, is it? You're not weak, you can't lose yourself yet. You need to get a grip and get up. Now.
Without looking up, you push yourself off your hands and knees and stand to your trembling, swaying feet. And the burning under your skin intensifies.
It tingles so violently and thoroughly, you feel as if you're about to throw up again. You can't do this.
For a few moments, you just stand there — good hand gripping the cross like a vice. Frozen in fear like a deer in headlights as your eyes blink open to stare almost through Him. Too scared to even try to meet His empty gaze as you're failing your purpose again.
Stunned, you're trying not to show how you're on the verge of blacking out from the nausea. How you can feel unconsciousness creeping up on you.
You don't want to know where you'll wake up again. Who'll be there to greet you. Which is why you need to move.
You take a few steps back. Your body feels like it's on fire. Like He's melting everything inside of you without moving a single muscle. Just standing there, trying to take control of your mind.
The snowflakes landing on your cut arms feel like icicles — stinging.
You shouldn't run. It hurt so bad and it'll only feel so much worse— You know He can make it feel so much worse. You can't even think straight.
Another step backwards sends you to the ground with a slip. Again. How do you keep failing at this — you expect independence and yet here you are! You can't even do a simple thing like take a step!
You land on your behind, barely catching yourself with your broken wrist and it shoots up your arm in a burn. You hiss.
Memories flood in. The humiliation of getting caught, the pain from your wrist — from your escape. The sweet relief of getting to exert violence. It snaps you out of your daze, reminds you how you'd do anything for freedom.
You grip the cross so tight it digs into old wounds, reopens freshly-healed cuts. Your skin is crawling.
But it doesn't matter anymore. It's too late now, you can't resist fate! You were quite literally made for this! You need to give it up. You can't handle another punishment.
Thunder cracks down on the earth in a violent rumble. The wind is howling, it throws the hood of your poncho off your hair, flows behind you in a dance. It's so loud it almost hides the overwhelming buzzing in your mind and body.
You flinch on instinct, dig your nails in the skin of your broken — healing palm, the silver gripped harsher in your other hand.
You can't listen to these thoughts anymore — it's all too much. You can't tell which ones are yours and which ones are— God, please just make it stop! You can't anymore!
Your broken hand moves to grip at the roots of your hair instead. Pulling, ripping — clawing. The cross held so forcefully, it draws blood. Stains it red.
Anything to help ease this discomfort.
You focus on the pain instead. Think, just think for yourself! Please! You don't want this. You want to be free — you need to be! You thrive in it—
Another booming roar of thunder. The wind picking up.
You won't let yourself be a slave again.
You blink through all the hurt, through the blinding snow and crane your neck up at him. The prickling in your skin kindred to a thousand scorching needles, but you push through it all.
Past the unnaturally long limbs, past the false, black texture pretending to be fabric. Your eyes find His face — His empty canvas of a head. Blank, white, abnormal skin pulled tight over a skull. No eye sockets, no mouth.
You meet God's lack of an eye and you glare. Then think it again, despite how much it hurts, how much it scares you: You won't be a slave again.
The storm is so loud, it's like mother earth herself came to your rescue. Drowning out all the evil from her child's poor, abused ears.
Thunder splits the earth again and within an instant—
He's gone. Having taken all the uncomfortable ringing and tingling with Him. All your energy as well.
Slowly, over the next few minutes, the weather calms too. Going from a raging storm to a peaceful rain of snow.
Until it's quiet again. Natural this time.
The breath you held forces itself past your lips in the heaviest of exhales. You release the grip on your hair — on the rosary. Your hands still shaking.
They fall limply to the wet snow as you sit in the cold. A few strands of hair stuck between your fingers. Old wounds reopened as you feel them leak with your blood. On your palms, your nose. Your heart too. It still coats your tongue from when it dripped past your lips. But you couldn't care less right now.
Tears form on your waterline as you let yourself fall backwards.
Head hitting white grass as all the strength leaves you. You let your eyes roll to the back of your skull.
more shitty sketches for working out how i want these 3 to interact with eachother... sometimes two people in love are a heterosexual woman and a homosexual man both of which have complicated feelings about the womans husband #messy
Don't listen to people who call Jeffjane shippers homophobic just because they like the ship, because there are two different Janes. And the excuse 'the old fandom jeffjane shippers were homophobic so that's why people didn't like them.' I don't deny there may have been some but this fandom was built on queer kids or abused/kids with trauma, they did not care. Its just misogyny because remember the old fandom hated TicciWork and JeffNina, they hated every ship with a female. Also it doesnt matter what the old fandom was like, we've evolved since then. No you're not supporting stuff in real life for shipping jeffjane because it was attempted murder she was not abused. If people can draw jeff and liu working things along together then jeffjane is in the same boat, they're just not related (another perfect example of misogyny.) No liking com*ships isn't inherently wrong. This fandom is full of serial killers and cannibals and so on, so no ship with them would ever be moral. No ship will not ever be a darkship. A lot of fanfics from back then also made a creepypasta kill readers family and make her in love with them, so I would not use the old fandom as an excuse. Seriously this fandom cares way too much about being the old fandom and obsessed with being in the fandom from the og days. Its not that big of a deal leave people alone. Calling toxic shippers the same as people who ship pedophilia and incest is the most disgusting thing you could do and you need to gtfo of my face. You don't like it? Scroll. Hell block. But dont insult it because your morality stops you from engaging in other ships. (Minor x adult is excluded from this because its illegal. Incest and rape are also excluded for me specifically because I find them all absolutely disgusting. But each to their own. I just think you may need help because those are actual mental problems.)
What if I did a multi choice drabble thing where reader was an omega puppy or bunny hybrid and everyone in the mansion was an alpha. Then what.
The operator steals you from some high end breeder because the proxies keep trying to kill each other, and their pheromones are clashing bad. They have no outlet, and rut seasons are hell for everyone under that roof.
They get too territorial, too quick to anger because their instincts are screaming from dawn to dusk. They can’t exactly just go out and court an omega, so the only solution is to throw a very well tempered one at them and pray it works itself out.
I don't understand why people mischaracterize Jeff so much. I don't understand why people assume he'll only really call you "slut" or "whore". I mean he'd have his moments but I feel like he'd probably do 'darling' and 'doll/dollface' most. 'Babydoll' is my personal favorite. Why do we think he's a misogynistic man who only says derogatory things? Feels weird. He's aggressive and an asshole but if he had some kind of care for a person he wouldn't call them things like that. I swear on my whole blog that if he's in a relationship with reader I'll try to stay away from those things. If they're not in a relationship then he'd probably say it a bit but yk.
