Hey friends! Call me Pax, any pronouns please (including it/its, neos, literally anything goes). I'm just a punk little freak who needs to get the stories out of his head before they explode. Feel free to drop something in my ask box if you ever want to chat, I'm always down for a good ask game or OC ramble.
Don't come here if you can't be normal about queer people, fat people, disabled people, People of Color, or any other people who aren't you. Hate speech and intolerance will be chased out with a pitchfork. That's all :)
Tags: Each of my OCs and fanfics is given their own tag (such as #jasper wilson, #oc kestrel, #heartstrings fic, etc.). Catch-all tags for OCs, art, and writing are under #my ocs, #my art, and #my writing respectively
Almost all of my writing is on AO3 (Practically_An_XMan), but you can check this post for links to all my fics: My NEW Writing Masterpost
And for introductions to (most of) my original characters, see this post here: My OCs Masterpost
Icon made by @mutant-edits, banner made me using a shitty meme editor
Writing prompt: An AU for Vivienne and Wojcheck, "soulmate AU, but your soulmate is who you are fated to kill each other"
Been thinking about this one for a while, and it's got me writing again! Enjoy!
____
Swallowed Sin
Word Count: 1.5k
Tags: gothic horror, gore, sirens, cannibalism (in a siren way), vague eroticism
Crossposted on AO3
____
The mark ran a scarlet the color of fresh blood, bisecting her throat from the base of her jaw to the middle of her breastbone. A small starburst sprang from the very center, where she might have worn a brooch or necklace.
Once, as a good Catholic woman, it had reminded her of Adam, his bite of sin still lodged in his throat. In the years that had passed, Vivienne had discovered that she was no Adam, and certainly not Eve.
Yet it had come to herald a swallowing of sin indeed; saltwater and guilt both as she was thrown to the sea.
Her first husband had borne the very same mark, and a near-simultaneous doom. Strychnine, she thought, was too foul for how delicate that little starburst on his throat had been.
Of all the things that had been made new the moment Vivienne awoke beneath the waves, her mark was not one of them. It remained stark and unchanged, and for years had left her wondering - was she fated to die again by this mark, or never to die at all?
Neither of these thoughts ever troubled it much. It had stolen this second life already; content enough to keep living but having made peace with the end all the same. As a mortal woman the mark had left her in constant fear: to have a mark at all meant a death of violence, a death from another's hand, and she had spent much of her life wondering who might rouse enough ire to bring her that death.
If she were to die from another's hand, would she rather that have been a stranger? To trust that her death would be an act of chance and misfortune, that it could have come at any time, and to live her life freely under the illusion that her death would be no different than of those unlucky enough to be struck by pox or plague? To pretend the mark on her throat meant nothing of the life before its foretold death?
Or would she rather comfort in knowing it came from somewhere close? To have a name that came with it, a face, as if that made her demise any more meaningful in the end? For a while, even, she'd convinced herself it could be an act of mercy. Even that thought troubled her, wondering what pains she might endure that to die would instead be considered a grace.
In truth there was no simply way not to be troubled by such a mark. Not for a woman of her standing, at least, not for a woman who did all in her power to remain in her rightful place.
It did little for Vivienne to dwell on it now. In the end, she earned her death; she'd granted her husband what he deserved in kind.
Her new love, her Antoni, bore a mark of his own. His tore outwards across his chest like a ring of teeth, and from a distance could be confused for a garish, bleeding wound. Unlike so many other men of his trade, he had made no attempt to cover his mark with tattoos.
It confirmed to Vivienne, from her very first glance, that he belonged to her. It could see the path its claws would take, carefully incising along each line to expose ribs and lungs and heart. Sometimes, laying in bed at night, she would run her fingernails along those marks and imagine how the flesh would part beneath her touch.
Yet not so soon.
His death was hers, it belonged to her, written into his skin from birth. That should have been a comfort. To know that your lover was to die by your hand was to also choose when your lover was to die. In a way, it thought, decades had been promised to it. Perhaps a recompense for years of fear and abuse, to be given a second chance.
Vivienne had expected to share a long and fruitful life with her Antoni, that no other dangers could claim his life because that final act belonged to her. It had told him as much, promised this every time he fell ill or a storm struck the ship.
No, my love, you will pull through. You will summit this hill. Your death belongs to me, and I do not claim it yet.
It did not account for a beast even more terrible than itself.
"Vivienne!" her husband screamed, the sound mingling with the roar of the wind and waves.
Somehow she managed to ferret her way inside, unnoticed by both his crew and the monster looming above. Her bare feet skidded on water-slicked planks as she tore through the corridors, finally finding her husband as he staggered through the cargo hold. One leg dragged behind him, badly broken. His eyes were wide with a panic like she'd never before seen on his face.
Before it could speak, he took it by the arm and roughly dragged it inside, already searching for a means of barricading the door. Something like footsteps shivered along the other end of the hall. To her animal senses, this thing was far from human. It moved like a whisper, like a secret of the night. It moved like housemaids' hushed murmurs of the bruises on their skin.
It chilled her to the bone.
Her husband grunted as he half-shoved a barrel against the door. It would stop the beast only a moment at best. There was no time, and nothing in the hold, for anything better.
"Antoni-"
"Now, rybko. Do it now." he said, and pulled his woven guernsey aside to expose his chest. The mark shone bright against his skin, a crimson tattoo.
The words caught up to her quickly, and her breath stalled in her lungs. No amount of time could ever be enough, but this sparse handful of years...
"I- no. We will have-"
"-years of sailing and a house by the sea, and I will live to be an old man," he finished for her, the story she'd told him a thousand times. He took an unsteady step and pressed his forehead against hers, more candid affection than she'd often seen from him, and said the words that broke her heart: "I know. I wish."
Then he took her by the wrists, pressed her palms to his chest.
"You must take me. That is all there is left."
A lurch and a slither from beyond the door. A shudder from Vivienne and her husband both. His grip on it was desperate, pleading. Suddenly it understood the meaning of his mark: not a stalwart against death, but the failsafe granting him some solace when the hour did come. Suddenly it understood how this could be a mercy.
So mercy was what it sang of, mercy and love and gratitude for the years he had given it, and his eyes fell half-lidded and drowsy from the magic laced through the air. He gave himself to her song freely, as a tranquilizer to the pain and the fear, as a promise that his body was hers to the end.
The flesh parted easily, as she'd imagined so many times. The blood mingled with the scarlet of its harbinger, painting her skin and his. Her husband never once flinched or cried out. Instead, through the haze, his expression reflected some venereal ecstasy. This was the greatest peace she could have given him. It was this monster or the other.
Vivienne reached her hands inside and drew out that most vulnerable piece, that pulsing muscle she had claimed from the very first moment. It moved once, twice, in her hands. To her it seemed like a small bird or rodent trapped between her fingers; a fragile trembling life held in her hands.
Her husband let out a shuddering, spent breath, and his body slumped boneless towards her. His eyelashes fluttered like butterflies' wings against the delicate skin of her throat. Just for a moment, and then it was done. He was gone.
With reverent precision, it brought that warm pink muscle to its lips, breaking the film and flesh with sharp teeth. Blood spilled salty like the sea across her tongue.
The sacred fruit. The swallowing of sin. Somehow it was unripe, she thought, meant to mature on the vine for years longer before it was plucked.
The door crashed open, barrel barricade discarded, shadowed silhouette looming above.
Startled, she choked. Sacred fruit lodged still in her throat, air refused.
The monster was still, drinking in the sight of Vivienne curled around her husband's lifeless body. She forced down the need for air and held herself still, looking at the beast in triumph.
No. He is mine. Now and ever.
The walking nightmare vanished from the door. Perhaps seeking easier prey, or knowing there was nothing more in the room to satisfy him.
Vivienne's throat spasmed, threatening to dislodge this final sin. She refused, and clutched her throat. He belonged to her, and she to him. Better to let this deed be his here, now, than to live years more in her grief.
Writing prompt: An AU for Vivienne and Wojcheck, "soulmate AU, but your soulmate is who you are fated to kill each other"
Been thinking about this one for a while, and it's got me writing again! Enjoy!
____
Swallowed Sin
Word Count: 1.5k
Tags: gothic horror, gore, sirens, cannibalism (in a siren way), vague eroticism
Crossposted on AO3
____
The mark ran a scarlet the color of fresh blood, bisecting her throat from the base of her jaw to the middle of her breastbone. A small starburst sprang from the very center, where she might have worn a brooch or necklace.
Once, as a good Catholic woman, it had reminded her of Adam, his bite of sin still lodged in his throat. In the years that had passed, Vivienne had discovered that she was no Adam, and certainly not Eve.
Yet it had come to herald a swallowing of sin indeed; saltwater and guilt both as she was thrown to the sea.
Her first husband had borne the very same mark, and a near-simultaneous doom. Strychnine, she thought, was too foul for how delicate that little starburst on his throat had been.
Of all the things that had been made new the moment Vivienne awoke beneath the waves, her mark was not one of them. It remained stark and unchanged, and for years had left her wondering - was she fated to die again by this mark, or never to die at all?
Neither of these thoughts ever troubled it much. It had stolen this second life already; content enough to keep living but having made peace with the end all the same. As a mortal woman the mark had left her in constant fear: to have a mark at all meant a death of violence, a death from another's hand, and she had spent much of her life wondering who might rouse enough ire to bring her that death.
If she were to die from another's hand, would she rather that have been a stranger? To trust that her death would be an act of chance and misfortune, that it could have come at any time, and to live her life freely under the illusion that her death would be no different than of those unlucky enough to be struck by pox or plague? To pretend the mark on her throat meant nothing of the life before its foretold death?
Or would she rather comfort in knowing it came from somewhere close? To have a name that came with it, a face, as if that made her demise any more meaningful in the end? For a while, even, she'd convinced herself it could be an act of mercy. Even that thought troubled her, wondering what pains she might endure that to die would instead be considered a grace.
In truth there was no simply way not to be troubled by such a mark. Not for a woman of her standing, at least, not for a woman who did all in her power to remain in her rightful place.
It did little for Vivienne to dwell on it now. In the end, she earned her death; she'd granted her husband what he deserved in kind.
Her new love, her Antoni, bore a mark of his own. His tore outwards across his chest like a ring of teeth, and from a distance could be confused for a garish, bleeding wound. Unlike so many other men of his trade, he had made no attempt to cover his mark with tattoos.
It confirmed to Vivienne, from her very first glance, that he belonged to her. It could see the path its claws would take, carefully incising along each line to expose ribs and lungs and heart. Sometimes, laying in bed at night, she would run her fingernails along those marks and imagine how the flesh would part beneath her touch.
Yet not so soon.
His death was hers, it belonged to her, written into his skin from birth. That should have been a comfort. To know that your lover was to die by your hand was to also choose when your lover was to die. In a way, it thought, decades had been promised to it. Perhaps a recompense for years of fear and abuse, to be given a second chance.
Vivienne had expected to share a long and fruitful life with her Antoni, that no other dangers could claim his life because that final act belonged to her. It had told him as much, promised this every time he fell ill or a storm struck the ship.
No, my love, you will pull through. You will summit this hill. Your death belongs to me, and I do not claim it yet.
It did not account for a beast even more terrible than itself.
"Vivienne!" her husband screamed, the sound mingling with the roar of the wind and waves.
Somehow she managed to ferret her way inside, unnoticed by both his crew and the monster looming above. Her bare feet skidded on water-slicked planks as she tore through the corridors, finally finding her husband as he staggered through the cargo hold. One leg dragged behind him, badly broken. His eyes were wide with a panic like she'd never before seen on his face.
Before it could speak, he took it by the arm and roughly dragged it inside, already searching for a means of barricading the door. Something like footsteps shivered along the other end of the hall. To her animal senses, this thing was far from human. It moved like a whisper, like a secret of the night. It moved like housemaids' hushed murmurs of the bruises on their skin.
It chilled her to the bone.
Her husband grunted as he half-shoved a barrel against the door. It would stop the beast only a moment at best. There was no time, and nothing in the hold, for anything better.
"Antoni-"
"Now, rybko. Do it now." he said, and pulled his woven guernsey aside to expose his chest. The mark shone bright against his skin, a crimson tattoo.
The words caught up to her quickly, and her breath stalled in her lungs. No amount of time could ever be enough, but this sparse handful of years...
"I- no. We will have-"
"-years of sailing and a house by the sea, and I will live to be an old man," he finished for her, the story she'd told him a thousand times. He took an unsteady step and pressed his forehead against hers, more candid affection than she'd often seen from him, and said the words that broke her heart: "I know. I wish."
Then he took her by the wrists, pressed her palms to his chest.
"You must take me. That is all there is left."
A lurch and a slither from beyond the door. A shudder from Vivienne and her husband both. His grip on it was desperate, pleading. Suddenly it understood the meaning of his mark: not a stalwart against death, but the failsafe granting him some solace when the hour did come. Suddenly it understood how this could be a mercy.
So mercy was what it sang of, mercy and love and gratitude for the years he had given it, and his eyes fell half-lidded and drowsy from the magic laced through the air. He gave himself to her song freely, as a tranquilizer to the pain and the fear, as a promise that his body was hers to the end.
The flesh parted easily, as she'd imagined so many times. The blood mingled with the scarlet of its harbinger, painting her skin and his. Her husband never once flinched or cried out. Instead, through the haze, his expression reflected some venereal ecstasy. This was the greatest peace she could have given him. It was this monster or the other.
Vivienne reached her hands inside and drew out that most vulnerable piece, that pulsing muscle she had claimed from the very first moment. It moved once, twice, in her hands. To her it seemed like a small bird or rodent trapped between her fingers; a fragile trembling life held in her hands.
Her husband let out a shuddering, spent breath, and his body slumped boneless towards her. His eyelashes fluttered like butterflies' wings against the delicate skin of her throat. Just for a moment, and then it was done. He was gone.
With reverent precision, it brought that warm pink muscle to its lips, breaking the film and flesh with sharp teeth. Blood spilled salty like the sea across her tongue.
The sacred fruit. The swallowing of sin. Somehow it was unripe, she thought, meant to mature on the vine for years longer before it was plucked.
The door crashed open, barrel barricade discarded, shadowed silhouette looming above.
Startled, she choked. Sacred fruit lodged still in her throat, air refused.
The monster was still, drinking in the sight of Vivienne curled around her husband's lifeless body. She forced down the need for air and held herself still, looking at the beast in triumph.
No. He is mine. Now and ever.
The walking nightmare vanished from the door. Perhaps seeking easier prey, or knowing there was nothing more in the room to satisfy him.
Vivienne's throat spasmed, threatening to dislodge this final sin. She refused, and clutched her throat. He belonged to her, and she to him. Better to let this deed be his here, now, than to live years more in her grief.
Writing prompt: An AU for Vivienne and Wojcheck, "soulmate AU, but your soulmate is who you are fated to kill each other"
Been thinking about this one for a while, and it's got me writing again! Enjoy!
____
Swallowed Sin
Word Count: 1.5k
Tags: gothic horror, gore, sirens, cannibalism (in a siren way), vague eroticism
Crossposted on AO3
____
The mark ran a scarlet the color of fresh blood, bisecting her throat from the base of her jaw to the middle of her breastbone. A small starburst sprang from the very center, where she might have worn a brooch or necklace.
Once, as a good Catholic woman, it had reminded her of Adam, his bite of sin still lodged in his throat. In the years that had passed, Vivienne had discovered that she was no Adam, and certainly not Eve.
Yet it had come to herald a swallowing of sin indeed; saltwater and guilt both as she was thrown to the sea.
Her first husband had borne the very same mark, and a near-simultaneous doom. Strychnine, she thought, was too foul for how delicate that little starburst on his throat had been.
Of all the things that had been made new the moment Vivienne awoke beneath the waves, her mark was not one of them. It remained stark and unchanged, and for years had left her wondering - was she fated to die again by this mark, or never to die at all?
Neither of these thoughts ever troubled it much. It had stolen this second life already; content enough to keep living but having made peace with the end all the same. As a mortal woman the mark had left her in constant fear: to have a mark at all meant a death of violence, a death from another's hand, and she had spent much of her life wondering who might rouse enough ire to bring her that death.
If she were to die from another's hand, would she rather that have been a stranger? To trust that her death would be an act of chance and misfortune, that it could have come at any time, and to live her life freely under the illusion that her death would be no different than of those unlucky enough to be struck by pox or plague? To pretend the mark on her throat meant nothing of the life before its foretold death?
Or would she rather comfort in knowing it came from somewhere close? To have a name that came with it, a face, as if that made her demise any more meaningful in the end? For a while, even, she'd convinced herself it could be an act of mercy. Even that thought troubled her, wondering what pains she might endure that to die would instead be considered a grace.
In truth there was no simply way not to be troubled by such a mark. Not for a woman of her standing, at least, not for a woman who did all in her power to remain in her rightful place.
It did little for Vivienne to dwell on it now. In the end, she earned her death; she'd granted her husband what he deserved in kind.
Her new love, her Antoni, bore a mark of his own. His tore outwards across his chest like a ring of teeth, and from a distance could be confused for a garish, bleeding wound. Unlike so many other men of his trade, he had made no attempt to cover his mark with tattoos.
It confirmed to Vivienne, from her very first glance, that he belonged to her. It could see the path its claws would take, carefully incising along each line to expose ribs and lungs and heart. Sometimes, laying in bed at night, she would run her fingernails along those marks and imagine how the flesh would part beneath her touch.
Yet not so soon.
His death was hers, it belonged to her, written into his skin from birth. That should have been a comfort. To know that your lover was to die by your hand was to also choose when your lover was to die. In a way, it thought, decades had been promised to it. Perhaps a recompense for years of fear and abuse, to be given a second chance.
Vivienne had expected to share a long and fruitful life with her Antoni, that no other dangers could claim his life because that final act belonged to her. It had told him as much, promised this every time he fell ill or a storm struck the ship.
No, my love, you will pull through. You will summit this hill. Your death belongs to me, and I do not claim it yet.
It did not account for a beast even more terrible than itself.
"Vivienne!" her husband screamed, the sound mingling with the roar of the wind and waves.
Somehow she managed to ferret her way inside, unnoticed by both his crew and the monster looming above. Her bare feet skidded on water-slicked planks as she tore through the corridors, finally finding her husband as he staggered through the cargo hold. One leg dragged behind him, badly broken. His eyes were wide with a panic like she'd never before seen on his face.
Before it could speak, he took it by the arm and roughly dragged it inside, already searching for a means of barricading the door. Something like footsteps shivered along the other end of the hall. To her animal senses, this thing was far from human. It moved like a whisper, like a secret of the night. It moved like housemaids' hushed murmurs of the bruises on their skin.
It chilled her to the bone.
Her husband grunted as he half-shoved a barrel against the door. It would stop the beast only a moment at best. There was no time, and nothing in the hold, for anything better.
"Antoni-"
"Now, rybko. Do it now." he said, and pulled his woven guernsey aside to expose his chest. The mark shone bright against his skin, a crimson tattoo.
The words caught up to her quickly, and her breath stalled in her lungs. No amount of time could ever be enough, but this sparse handful of years...
"I- no. We will have-"
"-years of sailing and a house by the sea, and I will live to be an old man," he finished for her, the story she'd told him a thousand times. He took an unsteady step and pressed his forehead against hers, more candid affection than she'd often seen from him, and said the words that broke her heart: "I know. I wish."
Then he took her by the wrists, pressed her palms to his chest.
"You must take me. That is all there is left."
A lurch and a slither from beyond the door. A shudder from Vivienne and her husband both. His grip on it was desperate, pleading. Suddenly it understood the meaning of his mark: not a stalwart against death, but the failsafe granting him some solace when the hour did come. Suddenly it understood how this could be a mercy.
So mercy was what it sang of, mercy and love and gratitude for the years he had given it, and his eyes fell half-lidded and drowsy from the magic laced through the air. He gave himself to her song freely, as a tranquilizer to the pain and the fear, as a promise that his body was hers to the end.
The flesh parted easily, as she'd imagined so many times. The blood mingled with the scarlet of its harbinger, painting her skin and his. Her husband never once flinched or cried out. Instead, through the haze, his expression reflected some venereal ecstasy. This was the greatest peace she could have given him. It was this monster or the other.
Vivienne reached her hands inside and drew out that most vulnerable piece, that pulsing muscle she had claimed from the very first moment. It moved once, twice, in her hands. To her it seemed like a small bird or rodent trapped between her fingers; a fragile trembling life held in her hands.
Her husband let out a shuddering, spent breath, and his body slumped boneless towards her. His eyelashes fluttered like butterflies' wings against the delicate skin of her throat. Just for a moment, and then it was done. He was gone.
With reverent precision, it brought that warm pink muscle to its lips, breaking the film and flesh with sharp teeth. Blood spilled salty like the sea across her tongue.
The sacred fruit. The swallowing of sin. Somehow it was unripe, she thought, meant to mature on the vine for years longer before it was plucked.
The door crashed open, barrel barricade discarded, shadowed silhouette looming above.
Startled, she choked. Sacred fruit lodged still in her throat, air refused.
The monster was still, drinking in the sight of Vivienne curled around her husband's lifeless body. She forced down the need for air and held herself still, looking at the beast in triumph.
No. He is mine. Now and ever.
The walking nightmare vanished from the door. Perhaps seeking easier prey, or knowing there was nothing more in the room to satisfy him.
Vivienne's throat spasmed, threatening to dislodge this final sin. She refused, and clutched her throat. He belonged to her, and she to him. Better to let this deed be his here, now, than to live years more in her grief.
Writing prompt: An AU for Vivienne and Wojcheck, "soulmate AU, but your soulmate is who you are fated to kill each other"
Been thinking about this one for a while, and it's got me writing again! Enjoy!
____
Swallowed Sin
Word Count: 1.5k
Tags: gothic horror, gore, sirens, cannibalism (in a siren way), vague eroticism
Crossposted on AO3
____
The mark ran a scarlet the color of fresh blood, bisecting her throat from the base of her jaw to the middle of her breastbone. A small starburst sprang from the very center, where she might have worn a brooch or necklace.
Once, as a good Catholic woman, it had reminded her of Adam, his bite of sin still lodged in his throat. In the years that had passed, Vivienne had discovered that she was no Adam, and certainly not Eve.
Yet it had come to herald a swallowing of sin indeed; saltwater and guilt both as she was thrown to the sea.
Her first husband had borne the very same mark, and a near-simultaneous doom. Strychnine, she thought, was too foul for how delicate that little starburst on his throat had been.
Of all the things that had been made new the moment Vivienne awoke beneath the waves, her mark was not one of them. It remained stark and unchanged, and for years had left her wondering - was she fated to die again by this mark, or never to die at all?
Neither of these thoughts ever troubled it much. It had stolen this second life already; content enough to keep living but having made peace with the end all the same. As a mortal woman the mark had left her in constant fear: to have a mark at all meant a death of violence, a death from another's hand, and she had spent much of her life wondering who might rouse enough ire to bring her that death.
If she were to die from another's hand, would she rather that have been a stranger? To trust that her death would be an act of chance and misfortune, that it could have come at any time, and to live her life freely under the illusion that her death would be no different than of those unlucky enough to be struck by pox or plague? To pretend the mark on her throat meant nothing of the life before its foretold death?
Or would she rather comfort in knowing it came from somewhere close? To have a name that came with it, a face, as if that made her demise any more meaningful in the end? For a while, even, she'd convinced herself it could be an act of mercy. Even that thought troubled her, wondering what pains she might endure that to die would instead be considered a grace.
In truth there was no simply way not to be troubled by such a mark. Not for a woman of her standing, at least, not for a woman who did all in her power to remain in her rightful place.
It did little for Vivienne to dwell on it now. In the end, she earned her death; she'd granted her husband what he deserved in kind.
Her new love, her Antoni, bore a mark of his own. His tore outwards across his chest like a ring of teeth, and from a distance could be confused for a garish, bleeding wound. Unlike so many other men of his trade, he had made no attempt to cover his mark with tattoos.
It confirmed to Vivienne, from her very first glance, that he belonged to her. It could see the path its claws would take, carefully incising along each line to expose ribs and lungs and heart. Sometimes, laying in bed at night, she would run her fingernails along those marks and imagine how the flesh would part beneath her touch.
Yet not so soon.
His death was hers, it belonged to her, written into his skin from birth. That should have been a comfort. To know that your lover was to die by your hand was to also choose when your lover was to die. In a way, it thought, decades had been promised to it. Perhaps a recompense for years of fear and abuse, to be given a second chance.
Vivienne had expected to share a long and fruitful life with her Antoni, that no other dangers could claim his life because that final act belonged to her. It had told him as much, promised this every time he fell ill or a storm struck the ship.
No, my love, you will pull through. You will summit this hill. Your death belongs to me, and I do not claim it yet.
It did not account for a beast even more terrible than itself.
"Vivienne!" her husband screamed, the sound mingling with the roar of the wind and waves.
Somehow she managed to ferret her way inside, unnoticed by both his crew and the monster looming above. Her bare feet skidded on water-slicked planks as she tore through the corridors, finally finding her husband as he staggered through the cargo hold. One leg dragged behind him, badly broken. His eyes were wide with a panic like she'd never before seen on his face.
Before it could speak, he took it by the arm and roughly dragged it inside, already searching for a means of barricading the door. Something like footsteps shivered along the other end of the hall. To her animal senses, this thing was far from human. It moved like a whisper, like a secret of the night. It moved like housemaids' hushed murmurs of the bruises on their skin.
It chilled her to the bone.
Her husband grunted as he half-shoved a barrel against the door. It would stop the beast only a moment at best. There was no time, and nothing in the hold, for anything better.
"Antoni-"
"Now, rybko. Do it now." he said, and pulled his woven guernsey aside to expose his chest. The mark shone bright against his skin, a crimson tattoo.
The words caught up to her quickly, and her breath stalled in her lungs. No amount of time could ever be enough, but this sparse handful of years...
"I- no. We will have-"
"-years of sailing and a house by the sea, and I will live to be an old man," he finished for her, the story she'd told him a thousand times. He took an unsteady step and pressed his forehead against hers, more candid affection than she'd often seen from him, and said the words that broke her heart: "I know. I wish."
Then he took her by the wrists, pressed her palms to his chest.
"You must take me. That is all there is left."
A lurch and a slither from beyond the door. A shudder from Vivienne and her husband both. His grip on it was desperate, pleading. Suddenly it understood the meaning of his mark: not a stalwart against death, but the failsafe granting him some solace when the hour did come. Suddenly it understood how this could be a mercy.
So mercy was what it sang of, mercy and love and gratitude for the years he had given it, and his eyes fell half-lidded and drowsy from the magic laced through the air. He gave himself to her song freely, as a tranquilizer to the pain and the fear, as a promise that his body was hers to the end.
The flesh parted easily, as she'd imagined so many times. The blood mingled with the scarlet of its harbinger, painting her skin and his. Her husband never once flinched or cried out. Instead, through the haze, his expression reflected some venereal ecstasy. This was the greatest peace she could have given him. It was this monster or the other.
Vivienne reached her hands inside and drew out that most vulnerable piece, that pulsing muscle she had claimed from the very first moment. It moved once, twice, in her hands. To her it seemed like a small bird or rodent trapped between her fingers; a fragile trembling life held in her hands.
Her husband let out a shuddering, spent breath, and his body slumped boneless towards her. His eyelashes fluttered like butterflies' wings against the delicate skin of her throat. Just for a moment, and then it was done. He was gone.
With reverent precision, it brought that warm pink muscle to its lips, breaking the film and flesh with sharp teeth. Blood spilled salty like the sea across her tongue.
The sacred fruit. The swallowing of sin. Somehow it was unripe, she thought, meant to mature on the vine for years longer before it was plucked.
The door crashed open, barrel barricade discarded, shadowed silhouette looming above.
Startled, she choked. Sacred fruit lodged still in her throat, air refused.
The monster was still, drinking in the sight of Vivienne curled around her husband's lifeless body. She forced down the need for air and held herself still, looking at the beast in triumph.
No. He is mine. Now and ever.
The walking nightmare vanished from the door. Perhaps seeking easier prey, or knowing there was nothing more in the room to satisfy him.
Vivienne's throat spasmed, threatening to dislodge this final sin. She refused, and clutched her throat. He belonged to her, and she to him. Better to let this deed be his here, now, than to live years more in her grief.
Hiiiii Paxxie happy disability pride month here is an eel
ayyyy thank you from me and from my right hip specifically (we've been in an argument today because I told him he wasn't allowed to subluxate while I was at work and now he's pissed)
happy disability pride month to you too friend!! here is an eel for you too :D
Out of curiosity, have you ever read the Derelict by William Hope Hodgson?
I recently read it, and it seemed like the kind of short horror story you might enjoy.
i have not yet, but thank you for the recommendation!! I'll have to track it down and give it a read!
Right now I'm reading Hummingbird Salamander by Jeff VanderMeer, it's a very different style from his Southern Reach books but I'm liking it a lot so far! All of VanderMeer's works, from what I've read at least, strike me as novels you would really enjoy if you haven't read them already!
when the horror movie is so good it has you rattled sending a normal goodnight text to your partner 😂😂
too long for tags so i put the rest here
watched obsession for the second time tonight and i can't decide which is more ironic: watching it the first time on a date night with my partner, or watching it alone in an empty theatre while my partner is across the country (visiting family)
anyway it's really good, inde navarette is fucking amazing, ten out of ten, i'm extremely desensitized to horror as a whole and this one still has me so unnerved and rattled that i'm sending the usual "goodnight! love you!" text and the anxiety brain is like "that's a normal text to send to your partner of a year and a half. that's not weird you're fine you're fine stop overthinking it" lmaoooo
Hiiii friend! Just saw you pop up on my dash and had to send you some greetings! :)
hey!! Good to see you!!
Yeah I haven't been online much, been really busy but also have taken a step or two back from social media as a whole! I don't think I had an unhealthy attachment to it or anything, but I've also had a lot of things going on in my irl and so I've stepped back a bit from the online side of things. But I am still writing here and there, when motivation strikes!
Pop into my askbox/messages any time, friend! I've missed chatting with you!
to the point that a friend asked me if i was intersex (while chatting about the surgery/health stuff) and my only answer was "maybe???? probably???"
because the mutations are so extensive that it probably could fall under the intersex umbrella, but also so rare (especially combined) that nobody's been able to research them and find out
I'm so glad that that truncated fucking ran-into-a-wall-at-speed tadpole-ass looking squirrel only lives in high altitude forests in Borneo bc this means I am extremely unlikely to encounter one in my day to day life. thank god
project hail mary is a touching and poignant film that leaves you asking questions about humanity like, "wow what if all mainstream media was genuinely good" and "what if book adaptions actually gave a shit about the book in question" and "what if studios hired actors that could actually act, and then let them get a lil wacky with it"
haven’t sent one of these for a while! Talk Shop Tuesday for your most recent moment of writing inspiration?
Oh thank you!!!
I haven't been writing a whole lot lately (been caught up in other irl events and projects) but I did have a super strong flash of inspiration when it came to writing the final chapter of WWFA!
I already had a concept in mind for what the final chapter would be - Bastet offering her final gift to Katherine, the mysticism and magic coming to a head, and the hint that Katherine has been accepted as a new member of the museum rather than truly dying -- but had a tough time starting for the longest time.
The inspiration to finish it... kinda hit me out of the blue, to be honest. I was driving to work and all the pieces effectively fell together all at once. Jotted some notes down when I got to work, held onto the idea for the rest of the day, then got home and wrote the entire chapter over the span of a few hours! It meant I was up too late and wasn't able to take my insomnia meds, but... I'd say it was worth it!!
I have had smaller bouts of inspiration here and there, namely for a possible epilogue to WWFA (that I'm not sure if I want to include or not, it would be cute but I like the note the story ends on in its current form) and a few shortfics from asks in my askbox, but nothing as strong as the urge to finish that last chapter!
Thank you SO MUCH for the ask!! This is my favorite thing about the tumblr space, and I've been missing it now that I've stepped away from social media a bit more.
