My horror take on Corpse Bride because I’m a sucker for that shit
TW: depression, loneliness, dead people, graves/cemeteries, kind of murder, kidnapping
Songs that match this fic if you feel like getting the whole vibe: https://music.youtube.com/watch?v=vYq-mEU8AaM&list=PLoZrqnx6Tl7eOT152FhDdi7KAzsHhPjXt - https://music.youtube.com/watch?v=7PtIHBCuR-Q&list=PLoZrqnx6Tl7eOT152FhDdi7KAzsHhPjXt - https://music.youtube.com/watch?v=uNRsWZnH6FI&list=RDAMPLPLoZrqnx6Tl7eOT152FhDdi7KAzsHhPjXt
You didn’t make a habit of visiting cemeteries, no real reason to, the one a few blocks away from your apartment didn’t cradle any of your loved ones or have names you recognized. And yet, there you stand. Iron wrought gate already propped open halfway as if inviting you in. Late night walks had become part of your normal routine, long after the lights flicker off in other buildings, shops flipping their signs to ‘closed’, buses no longer running. You choose to wander the streets, pausing under streetlights to watch moths flock to the bulb, their tiny wings tapping against the glass.
There’s no lights illuminating the cemetery, a rolling expanse of darkness shrouding everything. There’s an odd comfort about the silence as you step through the gate, almost like a blanket being draped around your shoulders. Dried leaves crunch under your feet as you follow the barely visible path, almost completely grown over with weeds and grass.
Your heart twists as you pause at a gravemarker, the name eroded after so many years, only a date remaining visible. A sick nausea overcomes you as you crouch, brushing off the dead moss that clings to the stone.
Would you also be forgotten? No flowers after your ancestors forget where you lay? No one to clean the stone that holds your name?
You move on, your fingers ghosting over each headstone you pass as if you’re trying to comfort the lost memories.
Pausing, your foot hovering over a lone patch of daffodils you almost trampled. You bend, carefully pinching off the stalks and lifting them to your nose, the soft aroma oddly soothing. Another bunch of flowers catches your attention slightly further down the path, then another, and another, like a breadcrumb trail leading you deeper and deeper into the cemetery.
When you find the last of the blooms you have a full bouquet, the only splash of color in such a dismally monochrome setting. A solitary headstone sits in the clearing, quite far away from the others which piques your interest.
You kneel in front of it, using your sleeve to scrub away years of grime to reveal the inscription.
Cursed to lay in silence, Cursed to be alone.
Granted a lovers kiss will I return.
A gift of flowers and lips upon my stone.
Hugo Thatcher Sinclair 1889 to 1915
You smile, people from the 1800’s were just as dramatic and gothic as we are today, you think to yourself.
The bundle of daffodils feel heavier in your hands and you look down, brushing your finger over the petals. You didn’t have a vase or anything large enough to hold them when you got home and guilt tugs at you. Not wanting them to go to waste, you carefully arrange them in front of the headstone. There, your final wish is fulfilled.
The words seem to waver slightly, part of it disappearing and being replaced making you rub your eyes, surely hallucinating from lack of sleep.
Cursed to lay in silence, Cursed to be alone.
Granted a lovers kiss will I return.
A gift of flowers placed against my stone.
Now a brush of lips, for my hand in turn.
You squint, reaching out to trace the words. What you saw was impossible, it was simply exhaustion. You nod to yourself, standing and turning away. As you near the gate you find yourself glancing behind you, taking one last look at the odd headstone in the distance.
Two weeks pass before you find yourself back at the cemetery, not even remembering heading in that direction. You blink up at the black gate, confused on how you ended up here. A sigh slips out, your days had gotten more tiring, filled with meaningless monotony, clocking in, clocking out, pay bills, stare at a half empty fridge, lay on your couch until you eventually fall asleep.
The same feeling envelops you as you step through the gate for a second time, the comforting weight of silence as you trail through to touch the headstones again. Automatically heading in the direction of headstone furthest away, your feet moving on instinct.
To your surprise the flowers still lay untouched, slightly wilted, but still crisp yellow despite the lack of water or nutrients. You kneel, once again wiping off dust, though this time it wasn’t as caked on as before.
“Hello, I came back.” you whisper, your voice sounding almost flat in the heavy silence “I’m not sure why, but I seem to like this spot.” you shift, sitting cross-legged and you begin plucking threads of long grass, braiding them and adding new strands “The flowers look nice here, maybe next time I’ll bring fresh ones.” time creeps by slower than usual, a comfortable change from the dizzying pace of your usual days.
When you check your watch you jolt upright, well past midnight, creeping into the next day “I have to go, I’ll see you soon!” you don’t know what compelled you to assure the headstone of your return, something clawing at your throat as you rush off, back to the ache of your empty apartment to get a few hours of sleep before your next shift.
The next time you return you carry a basket of new flowers and some food for yourself. You had stopped by the store on your way home, eager to visit the cemetery again.
Marigolds, peonies and baby’s breath. You took your time picking out the prettiest options, wanting to leave something to brighten up the headstone.
Your brows furrow as you reach the grave. The daffodils had completely rotted, mold creeping up the petals like death itself claiming the colors. You had never seen that before, usually flowers would shrivel and eventually just fall apart, but you brush it off, assuming the natural elements were at work.
The second your fingers curl around the disgusting mess of flowers, the poem changes again, returning to the original words. The limp flowers fall from your hand, scattering as the wind picks up for a moment, making you shudder.
Curiosity has you kneeling yet again, slowly pulling the fresh flowers from your basket and arranging them the way you had with the daffodils. This time you watched closely, you had a full eight hours of sleep last night and no overtime work, so there was no possible way for you to hallucinate.
Your breath stutters in your chest as the words melt and reform, showing the second poem. This can’t be real, a trick of the light or a bad prank. You look around, hoping to catch sight of some snickering teens holding their phones up and filming, maybe even a projector clamped up in a tree branch, anything to explain it.
Finding nothing suspicious you turn back to the grave, leaning closer to inspect the inscription as if it would whisper its secrets if you just moved within reach. Something slams into your back, sending you forward, face pressed against the rough stone, your cheek scraping hard enough to bleed. You whip around, chest heaving in fear. You swear you felt hands on you, like someone pushing you. Nobody stands behind you, no sound of escaping footsteps, as your rapidly beating heart slows and steadies you face the headstone.
Panic crawls up your spine, sinking its claws into your ribs like a hawk catching its prey. The words have changed again.
Cursed to lay in silence, Cursed to be alone.
When the moon is full I will take your hand.
To reap the love that has been sown.
And drag you down to the forgotten lands.
You run, leaving behind your basket and the flowers, scrambling over the uneven dirt that seems to cling to you, barely able to see your hands in front of your face. To your horror the ground seems to brighten, lighting up the cemetery in a pale white light, when you look back you watch as the full moon crests over the trees.
Your shoe flies off as it snags on something, a root or gnarled vine curling out of the dirt. You stumble, catching yourself on a nearby headstone, wheezing. The gate still looks so far away, like you barely even closed the distance. In that moment of pause, a tug on your ankle sends you down.
Dirt clings to your skin as you scramble to right yourself, nails clawing at the ground, your screams echoing back at you as if the whole cemetery was trapped in a bubble. Then nothing, the grip on your ankle vanishes, the moonlight dims, the tension in the air breaks.
Just as you suck in a breath of relief a pale hand bursts through the cracked earth, clamping down around your wrist. Another scream rips through your throat, cracking from the desperation and terror.
A second hand pushes through, flattening against your forearm, pulling you down, the earth seeming to swallow you whole. Your lungs fill with the musty scent as the hands tug your deeper, just as you feel your vision fading at the corners your body falls free, landing on hard cobblestone.
Someone rubs your back as you cough violently “My love, you are safe. Breath slowly.” a warm voice whispers in your ear, making you reel away, shoving the person away.
The man stares at you, hurt flashing across his pale features, his hand still raised to comfort you “Why do you run from me? I am your destined." he tried to move closer but you push yourself out of reach, your eyes wide as you swing your gaze around, taking in the unfamiliar location.
“You fulfilled the oath, we are bound together.” he manages to catch your hand in his, lifting it to your face. There, wrapped around your ring finger, a band of silver-gold metal, resembling woven strands of grass.
I'll be focusing on posting my OC works instead of my fanfics for awhile, these have been sitting around for a while and I really want my original stuff to see the light of day lmao. Hope y'all enjoy! - Ketchup
Yesterday’s 04/05/25 UPDATED: Just because I, on the slightly lower right side, changed the two headshots of Iva and Eliot to a simple doodle comic-like caption of them in some silly manners; plus, featuring a new but (kind of) final design of Iva, btw.
Before starting the drawing, there’s something randomly popped into my silly head a new silly idea to include a typical crossover concept drawing between my Crossover AU project, Star Heart and my new but loosely rebooted/reimagined version of the Dovhonosyky Show, The Long-Nosed Out. So, resolutely I included my Corpse Bride Next Gen/Star Heart OC, Eliot, and Iva (the Host), who relate to each other as a platonic but frankly friendship duo between a human and an alien, who have witnessed cases in which they are almost involved with, and yet have beautiful but separate human women they so favorably crush on.
Yet, interestingly, that my new reboot project, sets after its own events, shall appear in my Star Heart only in the fourth fanstory. Essentially, Eliot and Iva are supposed to be interdimensional main protagonists with their split scenarios between A and B, which is loosely inspired by the split scenarios of Leon Kennedy and Claire Redfield from Resident Evil 2.
And also, this artwork may be the last post of this year. However, I will continue to draw something only for next year after January 1st, ig. At least, Happy (early) New Year, folks! And see you soon!
Art, Eliot, The Long-Nosed Out and Star Heart AU projects are belongs to me (C)
The Host (Iva; in my version) from the Dovhonosyky Show or The Long-Noses Show (Ukrainian: Шоу Довгоносиків) are belongs to PRO-TV (Ukrainian: ПРО-ТВ)/Viktor Prykhodko (Author and director of this show) (C)
Corpse Bride belongs to Warner Bros. Pictures/Burton Projects/Laika Studios/Patalex II Productions/Tim Burton (c)
A story set in the Gilded Age for @thepromptfoundry event Decades December day 26 The 1880s featuring my Corpse Bride oc Amilia Van Dort, My adrienette fan kid Emily Agreste, and some of my own ocs.
Amilia Van Dort is amazed by the giant skyscrapers of the American cities since they remind her of London while she is visiting her dear friend Mary. Walking on the sidewalk, Amilia see the common people go about their day of selling newspaper and making their way to work. Soon, Amilia Van Dort arrived at the building where her friend lived and she told the front desk about her meeting with Mary, where a staff member help Amilia to a metal box called a elevator, which the doors closed and the staff pull a lever that bring the elevator up to a upper floor. After getting off the elevator, Amilia arrived at the door and knock on it, where Mary open the door and welcome her friend, "Amilia, it's good to see you. I got others guests." and introduced a blond hair woman and a brown hair woman around their ages, "These are Emily Agreste from France and Machiko Eanter from Japan." Soon, the four young woman have tea together and talk about stories of the American frontier in the West they hear about.
hello! @valreblogsalot here starting a OC ask blog featuring countless of OCs! But let’s start some ground rules. You can specifically ask for certain OCs to ask by PMing me. but let’s get to the rules!
1. no hateful comments !!* will not tolerate any rude or obnoxious comments in any shape. I deal with stuff as much as it is.
2. no nsfw! no asking for adultery , or lewd requests. some of my OCs are children so please be respectful of that!
3. No bullying!pretty obv
4. ABSOLUTELY DO NOT COMPARE MY OCS TO EXISTING CHARACTERS ITS ANNOYING
Meet Florence beechworth-Bittern, Barkis’s step daughter and husband of her mother, Charlotte. She eventually passed away from being murdered and suffocated by him for her riches. She came from an aristocratic lineage and is very good friends with Victoria.
