Mutuals Dont Worry Im Going To Eroticize Horror And Gore With You And Keep You Alive Forever

nervous kiss x “can I kiss you?” with secundo 🫣

ha ha ha ha. about 1.2k words! we love a mysterious, nervous secondo.

The man had been coming in during your shift for the last few months. He would always order the same thing - a doppio espresso and sit at the end of the bar either reading or writing something in a tiny, black pocket notebook. At first, you weren’t sure about him — the face paint could be off-putting at times and it took you a few visits to realize that there were times he came in without it, his mismatched eyes hidden with dark sunglasses. You ended up recognizing his voice and put two and two together.

He never bothers anyone, only staying on his stool, deep in his reading and writing. It was difficult for you to not be drawn to him, the man wears skull paint and is so very relaxed about it. Yet, you realized you’ve never seen him smile. You started to have his espresso ready for him as soon as you saw him come in and you swear the first time you did it, you saw the corner of his mouth twitch into a minuscule grin. The more you had his espresso ready for him, the more he began to speak to you, starting off with small pleasantries and moving into some easy conversations.

He told you he went by Secondo but wouldn’t share much else about himself so you ended up telling him how this is a second job for you to help make ends meet but that you also really enjoy making drinks anyway. He seems fascinated with how you move behind the bar and will routinely take breaks from his work to watch you make people’s drinks, trying to guess what ingredients are needed. Secondo slowly became your favorite regular, especially after learning he only came into the store during your shifts.

During this particular shift, he hasn’t come in yet at his usual time and the thought that maybe he won’t be in today crosses your mind. The pre-closer has already left so you’re working on your closing tasks. It’s been a slow evening with steady rain outside, deterring the evening coffee drinkers. You’re working on wiping down the bar when he finally arrives, black umbrella in hand and his usual immaculate skull paint. You give him a small wave.

“On me today, Secondo.” You smile wide and he gives a small sigh before walking over to the bar. He knows better than to argue with you, at least when it comes to free drinks. You pull his shots of espresso as he gets settled, laying out his book and his notebook on the counter.

“Just you tonight, dolce?” His thick Italian accent rolls off his tongue.

“Mhmm. You’re in late today.”

“Ah, la pioggia, the rain kept me away but… well, I needed my doppio.” He offers a smile - he’s been doing that more often these days and it makes your chest tighten.

“Well, thank you for visiting. It’s been slow today.” You wave a hand around the empty coffee shop. “I’ve been a little lonely.” You slide his cup and saucer toward him on the bar and he reaches for it, the smooth leather of his gloved finger brushes against yours. A breath catches in your throat.

“I am happy to keep you company, dolce.” He lifts the espresso cup that looks comical in his large hand to his lips and takes a sip. A content sigh escapes his lips.

You work quietly on your closing duties but still make sure to check in on him from time to time. As your break time gets closer, you eye up the display case for a snack. You settle on a brownie and you carefully take it out with a piece of parchment paper before putting it on a tray and sticking it into the oven for about ten seconds.

You carefully set the brownie on a plate and grab two spoons before making your way over to the bar. Secondo’s eyes drift along your figure as you come closer and he watches as you sit right beside him at the bar. You slide the brownie in between the two of you and settle a fork on his side of the place.

“Share this with me?” You scoot in closer to him and use your fork to take a small bite of brownie. This is the first time you’ve ever seen Secondo look so blank. He nods and picks up the fork, beginning to slowly pick at the brownie.

“It’s very good, dolce.” He says quietly between bites. His eyes shift to your face. “A-ah, you have a little something —“ Secondo points to your face. You swallow the piece of brownie and try to wipe at the spot he is pointing. “Let me.”

He leans in and reaches his hand out, carefully using his finger to wipe away the brownie crumbs at the corner of your mouth. You feel your cheeks flush at his touch and he lingers there for what feels like eternity. Secondo’s finger moves from the edge of your lip to your cheek, the tips of the rest of his fingers brushing against it. You suck in a short breath, your eyes fixed on his. His brows knit together, hand quivering before he gave a soft breath.

“Can… can I kiss you, dolce?” Secondo whispers, his voice barely audible. He looks unsure of himself and almost a little bit afraid, even though you almost immediately nod yes. His hand cups your cheek and he very slowly leans in, his lips ghosting yours before he presses them to yours. The taste of espresso still lingers as you kiss him back, your lips moving carefully against his. He pulls away just an inch, feeling his hot breath on your lips as he gazes into your eyes

You lean in again just as his hand drifts to firmly grip the back of your neck. Secondo groans quietly as your hands fall to his chest, your tongue moving against his. You forget about the brownie and the work you’re supposed to be doing, your hands running over his strong chest and moving in as close to him as you can, practically getting into his lap. He wraps his spare arm around you, holding you to him while he deepens the kiss, using his grip on your neck to tilt your head back.

You moan into the kiss, your eyes fluttering open slowly as he pulls away. The two of you are left panting, the brownie nearly out of your reach after you’ve made your way into his lap. His gloved fingers toy with your apron, his dark eyes meeting yours. Your breathing quiets and you lean a bit away from him to take him in.

“I should… I should probably finish up closing.” You can feel your entire face heat up, realizing that you had just made out with a customer.

“Mm, si, si.” He sucks in a breath. “May I wait for you? Maybe… take you out for a drink that isn’t coffee?”

You nearly fall out of his lap, though you’re able to get your legs working again. If he didn’t see your blush before, you’re sure he can see it now, feeling it all the way up to the tips of your ears.

“I would love that, Secondo.” You can hardly hide the excitement in your voice. His lips curl into a small smile and he clears his throat, reaching for his umbrella.

“I’ll leave you to it then, dolce. I’ll be outside waiting.”

Prime Mover (Download Festival 2012) For @rspitespitfield 🧡

this is a PSA for fic writers who haven't updated in a while :

there are fics out there I'm subscribed to that have gone double digit months without updating.

rest assured the moment those babies catapult an AO3 email my way i'm dropping from the face of the earth to sink my teeth into them

i'll wait, and so will your readers

oh silly little old people (i couldn't find a good reference and had to improvise a lot)

his tits are out

write bad fanfic. write mediocre fanfic. write fanfic that a thousand people before you have already written. write niche fanfic. write fanfic that only a few people will read or understand. write fanfic just for you. write fanfic just for a friend. write ocs. write self-inserts. the fact that you’re taking the time and energy to put your ideas into the world is amazing and people who shame you for it need to find better ways to spend their time.

COWBOYS FROM HELL . SECONDO

Pairing: Outlaw!Secondo x Fem!Reader (crossover between Ghost and Red Dead Redemption and Copia is part of the bloodline because I can).

Summary: Tales of the Emeritus Brothers have traveled every corner of the Wild West since dawn of time. You had heard about them for the first time when you were a child. Your grandfather would sit outside and paint a world of chaos and destruction to you. For most of your life, that was what they were. Tales. Until their rage fell upon you and the tales turned to reality. Or the one where our beloved Papas are the leaders of a gang in the 1899 Wild West.

Word count: 4.3k

Warnings: Graphic depctions of violence, minor character death, implied/referenced talk about rape, objectification, mentions of blood, mentions of a large abdominal wound, dubious morality.

Notes: This is a repost since I moved from my old to a new blog! Will I ever continue this? Will this turn into an enemies to lovers thing? Will our boys have a redemption arc? Will they all die at the end? I have no idea. What I know is that I had so much fun writing about evil brothers being the bringers of chaos in the 1899 Wild West. This writing was 100% inspired by this amazing art. I swear I stared at it for, like, two hours. Also, although I mentioned places, weapons and outfits from the game (because I just had to… Sorry, my mind likes a lot to specify things), they definitely shouldn't stop you from reading this if you haven't played the game! Keep in mind that English isn't my first language. Sorry in advance for any mistakes. Enjoy!

If you prefer to read on AO3, here it is!

If you want to take a look at my other writings, here they are!

If you want to discover the Red Dead Redemption World, here is an interactive map (it's mainly for Red Dead Online, but choose the "Hide All" option and you should be able to properly study the map — our story is set in Ambarino, more specifically, in Grizzlies West) and here is the page where it all begins (feel free to explore the infinite pages they have about the game, including a page about weapons and other about clothes).

The logs crackled and popped in the fireplace. Umidity had permanently settled itself inside the hut, a timeless, silent, mysterious resident, which lurked in the shadows and corroded bones. The fire flickered under its influence, fighting to stay alight. You were just another visitor. Suceeded countless other visitors. Pioneers, scouts, lawmen, outlaws, gangs and gunslingers, gamblers, naturalists, bounty hunters, traders, collectors. People who had ventured north only to meet Winter. And, along with it, death. Cold had clawed at skin and bone. Only ghost stories remained, and, whenever the wind blew, they resonated inside the hut, a million voices crying for help.

And there you were.

The hut was small. Its walls were made of wood. When the wind blew harder, it whistled through the cracks between the logs. There was one bed, one table, one chair, one shelf. The bed was placed on the same wall as the fireplace. The table and the shelf were placed on the opposite wall. The former, under a window covered with a ragged blue curtain. A small kitchen had been built in the farthest corner of the hut. The counter bore a sink. It was rounded and shallow. So shallow that it was impossible to fit both hands under the tap when washing them. A cauldron had been abaondoned beside the counter. Food had rotted inside the counter and stained the wood. Other than the stains, the counter was empty.

Marion coughed. Weakly and lowly. You averted your eyes to her emaciated body, a small lump underneath a ragged blanket. She shivered, pulling the blanket closer in a useless attempt to warm herself. Her fingers tightly wrapped around the blanket. They were slender and firm, capable of shooting a rifle with incredible precision, but, in the matter of a week, they became bony and weak, uncapable of holding a spoon with minimum steadiness.

"I-In the bleak m-midwinter... In the... In the bleak midwinter... In t-the bleak midwinter..."

A dagger sliced your heart. Her voice was low and quavering; her breath, shallow and accelerated. Your fingers tightened around the cup between your hands. It was old, rusty and faded. Spirals of steam rose from it and perfumated the air with the scent of coffee. "Frosty wind made moan," you continued.

"F-Frosty wind m-made..."

She coughed again. Silence fell in the hut, except for the logs crackling and popping in the fireplace.

"Earth stood hard as iron," you insisted.

"Earth..." Marion begun, but her low voice faded into a ragged breath.

"Stood hard as iron."

Tears blurred your vision as you supressed a sob. Desperation filled your bloodstream. You had tried to avoid the truth. But, now, it was impossible to ignore it. Marion was dying. And there was nothing you could do to save her, except watch life drip from her eyes at each passing day. The deep wound on her right thigh had turned into a black mass of rotten tissue that had started to spread in all directions no matter what you did. You had three and a half bottles of Medicine, five doses of Chewing Tobacco and four bottles of potent tonics. But they were all over, and, apparently, useless despite their promising results on the first days. You had even tried Moonshine and Cocaine Gum, but they were equally useless.

It had been a day since you had arrived at that forgotten-by-God hut in that forgotten-by-God land. Not that you had a choice. The Emeritus Boys had massacrated your gang. They were popularly known as the Cowboys from Hell. Legend said they sold their souls to the Devil and ravaged the Wild West in His name, bearing skull face-paints and riding horses in flames that destroyed everything on their way. They were followed by countless masked people. It was believed they had been, once, victims of the Emeritus Brothers, and were possessed by the Devil. Their masks had the shape of the Devil, with horns and two holes for the eyes that, rumor had it, were useless, because only their sockets had remained.

When you were little, your grandfather used to tell stories of their heartless undertakings, and you hung on every single word that fell from his lips. Usually, he sat on a rocking chair at the front porch, peacefully smoking a cigarette, and you would seat in front of him, insistently begging for stories. You had promised you would protect him, and the rest of the family, if they ever set foot in your ranch as you aimed an unloaded carbine at the horizon.

The stories faded. So did the promise. Your grandfather passed away, and the Emeritus Brothers never set foot in your ranch. But tuberculosis did, and your unloaded carbine was useless to protect your family. First, it was your brother. Then, months later, your mother. Your father sold the ranch, believing a curse had befallen it, and you moved from sunny Henningan's Stead to cloudy Big Valley. A new life. That, nonetheless, never worked for your father. He ended up dying years later, drunk and lost inside his mind. You had to figure out a life for yourself.

Ended up becoming a bounty hunter, and, then, joining a gang.

A week prior, when the Emeritus Brothers appeared in the dead of the night, the stories, although faded, had turned to reality; and the promise, although faded, story. Again, you had failed to protect what you now called family. And miserably. There were no horses in flames, but four men in skull face-paints and men in masks with horns and two holes for the eyes destroyed Rowe manor.

Chester "Bad" Rowe, the gang leader, had played with fire, and, thus, suffered the consequences. So did the gang.

Suddenly, the door opened. Russell, Tim and Fannie entered the hut. And, along with them, cold, uninvited. The wind blew behind them, pushing snow inside, and the fire violently danced on the fireplace.

You abruptly stood from the chair, which loudly screeched against the floor. "The fire, damn it!"

Russell huffed and rushed to close the door. Tim glared at you as he yanked the leather gloves from his hands. A rabbit rested over his shoulder. And that was that.

"One rabbit? Really?"

"Feel free to hunt yourself," Tim irritatedly mumbled.

You glared at him, "Tomorrow."

Sustaining your glare, Tim abandoned the rabbit on the wooden table. It collapsed with a thud against it, making the rest of the coffee wave inside your cup, and you averted your gaze to the dead animal. It was a scrawny rabbit, with grey fur and long ears.

"Clean it," he spat.

You pushed him against the nearest wall, forearm pressing against his chest and hand fisting a bunch of fabric of the jacket he wore. "Don't fucking tell me what to do."

You pulled your dagger from your belt, pressing the cold blade against his throat. A single tear had streamed down your face and the path created by it shone under the fire. It stood out amongst the dirt and soot on your face.

"Hey..." Russell touched your shoulder. Fannie stood behind him in a stony silence. You exchanged a glance with her. "C'mon, stop it."

"The new leader of the gang, or, well, what rested of it," Tim ironically grinned at you, ignoring Russell and Fannie beside him.

"I needn't be a leader to cut your damn throat, bastard" you mumbled trough gritted teeth. The blade cut his skin and blood trickled out of the superficial cut, staining his clothes.

"Earth s-stood hard as iron," Marion softly mumbled from the bed. "Earth... In the bleak..."

Russell was filled with consternation for his wife. There she rested, with no prospects of getting better, and you fought because of a rabbit.

"Dear God, let the rabbit with me!" he spat at you and Tim, burrying the axe in his hand in the table and opening a crack in its wooden surface. "Stop this nonsense!"

You released Tim, and he spat on the ground. "Was it you that told the Emeritus Brothers where to find Chet? Brought those skulls and demons to do the dirty job for you so you could steal his position?"

"Tell me, what has that done for me? Starving in the middle of nowhere. No food, no medicine, nothing!" you answered. "You should work for the Pinkertons with those clever assumptions, Tim. You'd go far," you joked, an amused smile playing on your lips.

In the blink of an eye, you had been pinned to the ground. You winced when the back of your head hit the hard surface. The air was knocked out of your lungs by the weight of Tim on you. The chair fell beside you with a loud thud, and your dagger clanked away from your hand. Russell protested against the fight again. Fannie stood beside him in a stony silence.

"Whore," Tim shouted above you. It seemed his face was going to explode. Red and swollen. Veins pulsated on his forehead, and beads of saliva rested on his chin. "I could spill your guts right here on this filthy floor."

"Do it," you challenged him. Your heart rumbled inside your chest. Adrenaline and fear filled your bloodstream. "Do it."

He fumed at you, but did nothing.

"In the bleak midwinter... In the..."

You pushed him from the top of you and sat up, your hand reaching for your dagger. "Coward."

Tim pushed himself up with a struggle, but once he stood up, he spat on you. His saliva landed on your clothed thigh, and you frowned at it. You had had much worse before.

Once you slotted the dagger in your belt and stood up, Russell had pulled the rabbit skin from its muscles, and Fannie had pulled vegetables from her satchel, one carrot and one potato.

"I'll get water for the stew," you announced to no one in particular, your fingers snatching the cauldron from its corner. You definitely could fill the utensil with water from the tap if water actually came out of it, but only droplets of water mixed with rust did.

"Be careful," Fannie matter-of-factly stated.

You yanked the door open and stepped outside. You never left the hut alone, but given the tension brewing inside it, time alone would be a gift. You felt sorry for Marion.

It was dark and windy. Cold gnawed on your bones as you attached the cauldron to and hung a lamp on your saddle, in front of the chest of the animal, and mounted your horse. It neighed, maybe in protest against the journey, but obeyed you nonetheless and walked to the riverbank. The Glacier flowed east, to the Spider Gorge, approximately three miles north of the hut. You walked between the dense forest. The light emanating from the lamp fluttered before you, the paws of your horse sank in the snow, a path forming behind it.

The wind blew silently, digging its way through leaves, branches and trunks. A crack of sky was visible between the thin leaves; it was the navy-blue of the ocean, and everything was quiet except for an owl peeping lowly in the distance. You pricked up your ears to carefully listen to any small sound. It was well-known wolves wandered around the mountains, but none interrupted the journey to the riverbank.

You submerged the cauldron and shivered at the contact of your skin with the water, an icy handshake embrancing your fingers, then your hands. The metallic utensil quickly filled with water. You carried it to your horse when a wolf howled in the distance. You instantly stopped moving, body freezing in place, as still as the trees that surrounded you. Your horse whined in fear, and you glared at it. Your breath condensated in the air as soon as you exhaled.

You cursed the water for hampering your attempt to listen to the forest. The howl was followed by barks and growls. There was more than one wolf. Seconds passed before you decided to move. It would be better if you had a gun in your hand. You attached the cauldron back to your saddle.

"Quiet," you shushed your horse. Not that it would actually keep it quiet, but fear clawed at your bones. Facing a lonely wolf was entirely different from facing a wolf pack all by yourself.

A gunshot echoed in the distance, followed by more barks.

You were accompanied. And by the loudness of it, they were close.

Your horse protested, its front paws kicking the air. You hoped the water would muffle the sounds coming from the animal. Knew it was a matter of time before the wolves heard it or, well, sniffed it. You pulled your Springfield Rifle from your saddle. Another gunshot echoed in the distance. The wolves barked and growled. You stepped around a large tree, studying your surroudings.

You walked towards the sounds, slow and silent. You took advantage of the low trunks and the darkness to hide yourself from sight. The Glacier flowed behind you as you headed southeast.

"Stay," you mumbled to your horse. It exhaled in response and agitated its head, the reins clicking around its neck.

Every cell of your body begged you to be sensible and run from trouble, but you would return with a wolf in the back of your horse. Would rub salt in the wound. Tim "Dickhead" Swanson deserved it. And, well, moreover, you were starving. The rabbit would do for a thin stew. And Marion, obviously, would get the largest portion. And you, Russell, Fannie and Tim would share its remainings just to calm your nervous stomachs, but not to fill them. The prospect of a decent meal enticed your senses.

You reached a clearing. On the opposite edge, two wolves circled a lump in the snow. A low growl rumbled from their throat. They were big wolves, with grey fur and long tails. Your stomach churned with hunger. One wolf lay dead on your right, and a trail of blood traveled to where the other wolves stood. You should be fast. Other wolves might sniff the blood and you would be dead if a whole wolf pack surrounded you. You aimed at the neck of one of the wolves and pulled the trigger. It yowled and staggered before falling over the lump in the snow. When the other wolf turned to you, you noticed a foot behind it. The animal angrily advanced towards you, and you blindly shot it, your feet tumbling backwards. It seemed your heart would explode inside your chest. The wolf whined and fell on the snow. The forest fell silent.

You pushed your body up from the snow as you whistled for your horse. Once you crossed the clearing, you noticed that the foot you had seen belonged to Tim. What was the bastard doing there? What had happened after you left to fill the cauldron?

Tim rested under the first wolf you had shot, and was alive. It was possible to hear a shallow breath escaping from his lips. The fear poisoning your bloodstream was instantly replaced by rage.

The wolf that had fallen over his body hid the wound the animals had caused, but it must be large since blood abundantly stained the snow around him.

You pulled your Schofield Revolver from your belt and pointed at him. Your finger rested on the trigger. Tim had no force to open his eyes, to speak, to breathe. To react at the gun pointed at him. Judging by the gravity of the wound, Tim would certainly die no matter what you did. And you already had to take care of Marion. And you had no medicine. Nothing.

If you shot him, it would be an act of mercy.

So you did.

The bullet carved its way through his chest, and you would never admit that peace filled your heart at the sight of his dead body. You loudly exhaled. Tears blurred your vision as you suppressed a laugh. You would have to lie to Fannie. Would have to hide the fact that you had shot her husband. Would say the wolves did it. Which, actually, wasn't a lie. You had just finished their job. Right?

You slotted the revolver in your belt and hang the rifle across your chest. Then, you kneeled in front of the first wolf you shot. It was a perfect shot, and the meat of the animal would be intact. Once you pulled the wolf from over the body, blood gurgled from the wound. As you suspected, it was large. His skin had been tore apart and his guts had been exposed, intestines destroyed.

"The tables have turned, fucker. I spilled your guts," you spat at the corpse in front you.

You had definitey gone mad.

You panted as you lifted the wolf to place it on the back of your horse. Your fingers knotted ropes around it when you heard steps behind the trees. They belonged to no animal, too loud for a predator that wished to hide from its prey.

You immediatelly snatched the rifle from your back. You waited. Were in disadvantage, exposed in the clearing. Your horse sensed your nervousness and neighed.

"In the bleak midwinter," you mumbled to yourself, your fingers mindlessly tightening around the gun.

A shadow stepped from the forest. Your eyes widened in shock at the sight in front of you, but you swept the emotion from your face before he could notice it and replaced it with rage. Deep and intense rage.

The man held a personalized Litchfield Repeater, wore a black Walden Coat, black leather gloves, black Buckley hat. And, around his neck, a cross. An upside down cross with a circle around it. And, on his face, a skull paint.

His lips were tinted black and crossed by thin lines imitating the exposed teeth of a skull. His cheeks showed black patches that stretched towards his ears and, from there, towards his neck. His eyes were surrounded by black circles and, to your bewilderment, had different colors. From where you stood, it was impossible to make out the color of his right eye — in fact, it seemed there was no eye there, the black paint and the shadows strangely camuflated it —, but his left eye... Was white. And it eerily shone in the darkness. A shiver shot through your spine.

"This is indeed a forgotten-by-God land."

"Yes, ma'am," he agreed.

"But I dare say... Too cold for the Devil."

He remained silent, a mischievous smile contorting his lips.

"What're you doing here?"

"The Devil," he licked his lips as he stepped towards you. "Has unfinished business in this land."

"And where're your brothers to help you? I expected the whole entourage, the Four Horseman of Apocalypse an' shit," you defiantly said. Had just killed two wolves and a man, and the adrenaline of doing so crawled under your skin and, apparently, prevented your mind from thinking straight. Perhaps not only adrenaline. But rage either. And... You had to admit fear had its share of your skin, but you refused to show it. At least, tried not to show it. He certainly noticed the tight grip of your fingers around your gun, or the slight frown on your face, or the nervous gulp of your throat.

His mismatched eyes sparkled at the insolence on your voice.

You had lost everything because of them and were thirsty for vengeance. Had sworn to hunt the Emeritus Brothers down and kill one by one. Had no clue the prey would willingly walk towards you. People said revenge was a dish best served cold, but you would say it was a dish best eaten.

"Well, you must agree with me that it would be a waste for the four of us to come for a lonely deer."

"And you volunteered to be the hunter?"

"In fact, yes... I like hunting. Especially preys such as you,” he menacingly circled you. “That think of themselves as wolves, but, in fact, are just deers. Scared and fragile deers. 'S pitiful, but endearing."

You glared at him, your eyes following his steps and mind searching for alternatives to escape from him alive, but nothing came to it. There was only one way out. Your hands slid over the gun, placing themselves on the appropriate spots for a shot.

"No talking anymore?" he nonchalantly asked from behind your horse, clearly more interested in it than in you. It was your chance to shoot your way out of that. You just had to circle your horse and shoot him. Wherever. Just to wound him and gain a few seconds to, then, aim properly at him, preferably at his head, and shoot him again. You could do it. You had just killed two wolves. "This is a fine animal."

He touched the neck of the horse, a black Turkoman horse. Fantastic health, good stamina and fast speed. The animal impatiently neighed, and responded to the touch with a shake of the head. "Ah," he delighfully exclaimed, "A rebel horse. The best ones, right?"

"Under unknown touch," you irritatedly stated, your body turning towards him. Only the left portion of his head and neck were visible behind the horse. You refused to hurt it. The only alternative was indeed to circle it. The emotions inside your body collided and churned. There were too many, and you were growing tired of them. Of the suspense. Of standing in the edge of the precipice, uncertain about who would fall. "Tame it and its yours."

"How about you?"

Your heart missed a beat. No. No, no, no. No. You nearly puked at the words, at the wicked smile. God forgave you for murder. You would commit another one.

"How about you?" he impatiently repeated.

You loudly whistled, and your horse quickly disappeared inside the forest surrouding you, the wolf swaying on his back. The confusion created by the sudden movement allowed you to attack him before he attacked you. Your hands trembled so much that your finger pulled the trigger before you could aim at any portion of his body, and the shot missed him. He angrily growled at you, his fingers swiftly traveling to the trigger of his gun.

Instead of trying to shoot him again, you took advantage of his occupied arms and hit his neck with the body of your gun to gain space. It would be easier to shoot him if the distance between you was larger. He huffed and stumbled backwards. Was bigger and stronger, so you had to move fast before he recovered balance, but he ended up falling on the snow with a thud as you ran to him.

Once you stepped over his body, he shot you. The bullet hit your left arm, and you desperately shouted as your body burnt in pain. It slowed your movement and stealed your strenght on the limb, but you kicked his hands and fell over him. His gun tumbled on the snow and he noticed it would be useless to reach for it, so he fought you with bare hands.

You pressed the body of your gun against his neck. The fibers of your body fought against him, desperately tried to maintain your position over him, but he fiercely writhed. Gasped and cursed you as you watched his eyes widen under the pressure on his neck. Tears blurred your vision, and blood soaked your clothes. It seemed your left arm would combust with all the strength you mustered from it to maintain the gun in place.

Then, it actually combusted. When he sank one of his fingers inside the hole the bullet had carved on your skin. You screamed as you had never done before. You were certain it echoed around Ambarino. He pushed your body from over him and stretched for his gun.

Then, a hand fisted your hair from behind and pulled your head back. You winced at the new pain. "Well, well, well, fratellino... What a treat."

On your knees, you desperately observed your surroundings. An upside down cross dangled from the neck of the man who held you in place. You needn't look at his face to know he wore a skull paint either. You silently cried. It had all been in vain. The first brother had been playing you all along. Had let you start the fight. Had let you exhaust your strength. So that he could laugh at you in the end.

He pointed his gun at you, his lips pursing in a wicked grin. "Indeed, a rebel horse. Tame it and its yours."

Steps thuded around the edge of the clearing. Two more figures joined the ones who were already there. One of them pulled your horse and another one. The other one pulled three more horses.

"Ah! The whole entourage, the Four Horseman of Apocalypse an' shit," Secondo spat. "Well, let me introduce myself and my brothers to you. I'm Secondo. The man behind you, the oldest brother, is Primo. The man by your horse, Terzo. And the man by the other horses, the youngest brother, Copia."

It was impossible to look at all of them when the man introduced as Primo had such fierce grip on your hair. Your horse entered your field of vision, so did the third brother.

"What a beauty," he tutted, his fingers holding your chin. "No need to cry, mia cara," he gently wiped your tears. You hated the touch of his gloved hand on your skin and closed your eyes. "Me and my brothers will take good care of you, si?"

You wanted to puke.

Then, he turned to Secondo. "Will you share her, fratello?"

"If you tame her, fratellino..." Secondo joked. The men laughed in unisson. It disgusted you to your core the way they talked about you as though you were a piece of meat. You would kill them, one by one. "She 'as fire in her eyes, oh, she does. Killed two wolves and that ol' bastard there before I showed up."

"In the bleak midwinter..." you trembly whispered. More tears rolled down your cheeks.

Another hand grabbed your chin, rougher this time. You opened your eyes. Secondo stood right before you. "You come with us. We still need to find your friends. You didn't fill this cauldron or kill this wolf for them to starve, yeah?"

PLEASE, CONSIDER REBLOGGING THIS AND/OR GIVING ME FEEDBACK, I WOULD APPRECIATE IT A LOT!

Pronouns and gendered words

Hello! Just a bit of a heads up for every writer out there:

If you're writing dialogue in a romance language (specially spanish or italian), be careful with the gendered words! I know there are barely those in English, but here's a few examples so you get what I mean:

•Friend≠amigo. Amigo -> boy friend Amiga -> girl friend. Friend is gender neutral, but there is no equivalent in Spanish.

•Pretty≈bonita. It can be, but bonita describes something considered femenine (a plant, a house, the living room, etc.). It can also mean bonito, which has more of a masculine meaning (the sea, the sky, the grass, etc.). Pretty is gn, but it isn't in Spanish.

•Mouse ≈ topo. Mouse can be topo in italian, but it can also be rat. Different genders, possible same word.

•Kid ≠ bambino. It's more like: little boy -> bambino Little girl -> bambina. Something similar happens in Spanish:

•Child≠niña/niño. Again, child is gender neutral, but there is no gender neutral equivalent in Spanish.

There is also, officially, no such thing as they in Spanish. The literal translation would be ellos, but it specifically addresses a group of people and cannot be taken otherwise. So, what to do? People who identify as non binary in Spanish usually use gendered words with an e. Bonite, niñe, hermose, etc. It depends on each individual, but that is the widely accepted way of addressing a person. They is often translated to elle (a new word, if you see it a certain way) in Spanish, but again, it depends on each person.

I decided to make this post because I've read a few fics (both reader inserts and other types) that have characters with neutral pronouns but end up being referred to in a gendered way when another character speaks to them in a different language. I know it isn't your intention, it’s difficult to figure out when it’s not your native language. Still, I hope this helps a little bit, we should all be careful and do an effort to respect people's pronouns in all languages!

Feel free to message me if you want/need help :)

The Fall Festival || Primo

Get lost (and found) in the Ministry’s annual corn maze with the first Papa 🎃

Contents: ≈ 3K words, SFW if you’re not a coward, primal kink if you squint, Vampire?Primo, Primo x gn!Reader

The first in my Autumnal Papa collection to celebrate the season and Halloween!

Your shoulders slump down as you round yet another corner of the labyrinth. A dead end. More corn. Dry husks of leaves crackled like TV static in your ears as you purse your lips in attempt to focus and retrace your steps. How many right turns had you taken? Left? Counting how many times you had run in to impenetrable walls of crops was useless, more times than you had fingers by this point surely. How long had you even been in this corn maze now?

Blood starts pumping through your body just a bit faster as you study the sky, how much darker had the orange clouds gotten? Had it been this cloudy when you arrived? Would it be dark soon? No phones or flash lights were allowed in the maze and all of a sudden every stalk of corn had begun to feel like its own living entity, crowding together and creeping in on you like a pack of over zealous hyenas stalking a gazelle.

Slow down, think rationally. Inhale through your nose, then exha-

The sharp splintering of snapping twigs and hay over gravel stiffen your spine within a fraction of a second, the swift river that was once running rampant through your veins suddenly curdles under your skin as the warmth of weathered palms settle over your shoulders.

“Dolce mostro, it is only I.” The air that had been lodged in your throat suddenly escapes as the familiar, accented drawl reaches your ears.

Swiveling on your heel to face him, the flicker of a pout crosses your face as you let out a huff. Papa Primo must have wandered off at some point during the past ten minutes when you had rapidly walked the aisles, swearing up and down that you definitely knew where you were leading him this time. And then still had the nerve to sneak up and frighten you like that right after!

Without hardly a moment to process the events of the past 60 seconds, you were taken aback by the sudden light touch of Primo’s hand against your face. A warm, damp streak wiped under his thumb over the height of your cheek bone. Not that you maybe had shed a tear or two, no you weren’t crying because you weren’t scared. You were in a field, dust got in your eye. Or something like that.

“It is not very becoming of a young monster to be so spooked, eh?”

Even if his words were a playful jab, his voice felt like a soothing balm, smoothing and curling over the rough edges of your nerves.

A wrinkle of concern marks his brow as he swipes the green make up from your face off from his thumb and on to his opposite palm where he rubbed his hands together to warm them before grasping on to your shoulders. The expression doesn’t last long without his gaze softening as he takes in your painted face once more.

Roughly an hour had been spent earlier that evening, batting your eyelashes at the older man and giving him your best pleading puppy dog eyes in attempt to sway him into giving in to your wishes. You wanted to dress up in costume together, be in spirit while you walked the course of the Autumn Festival.

Eventually, at your rather dedicated insistence, Primo gave in. And although it was far from out of character, you had to admit that he did look a bit out of place now in the fields with a dark colored tail coat draped over a smooth, red satin vest and a frill collared shirt that was only barely more ruffled than his usual garb.

You had rolled your eyes at his dress choice that past afternoon. Io sono Dracula, he had uttered in a feigned rasp of a whisper as he slinked towards you sat in front of the mirrored vanity, he had hardly even succeeded in leaning down towards your neck before being swatted away. Only a few more flutters of your eye lashes were needed to gain his help when you requested he put on your face paint as a favor. He was the expert, after all. 45 minutes later and you had been transformed with creamy green cosmetics applied with sweeping brush strokes, a few gentle smudges with the heel of his hand. So what if your lip stick came off with a little kiss mark or two on his cheek? That was the price to pay to become Frankenstein’s Monster.

Now that once vibrant face paint had dulled over the hours, cracking through your laughter and now smeared over your cheeks as you stared defiantly up at your Papa.

“I wasn’t scared.”

“No, no. Of course not, amore.” Normally the soothing coo of his voice would be comforting, but the bare minimum effort being put in to hiding the teasing smirk growing on his face put that illusion to rest immediately.

“Molto coraggioso.” It was futile to try to resist leaning in to Primo’s hand as he smoothed back your hair lovingly and your eyes drifted closed momentarily before remembering that he still was in fact teasing you when his voice practically purred next to your ear.

“Come now then, I know the way out.” The sentence came out so casually that for a moment you could only stand and stare in bewilderment as he patted your shoulder and turned to walk in the opposite direction. Primo had given up his guidance right at the entrance of the maze and told you to take the reins. Had this god forsaken old man just accepted the aimless wandering this whole time and said nothing?

“I know you did not believe I would allow us to be lost, mio sole.” He commented with a dry chuckle after you had finally swallowed your pride and followed his lead, trailing behind by several feet while peeking around each corner that was passed by. All pouty comments were withheld, even if all you really wanted to do was ask how much better he thought he was if he still allowed the two of you to delve in so deeply into the fields. He could be interrogated once you were a safe fifty feet from this unnerving excuse of a bonding activity.

Time moved slower and slower as the corn stalks blurred together, seeming to grow even taller as the rays of the sunset began to diminish. It had only taken a few minutes of retracing your steps to lose track of the never ending twists and turns of the maze. Gradually you crept closer to Primo, now almost following directly in his footsteps while grasping at the sleeve of his jacket. The arm that he wrapped around your torso is of little comfort as yet another corner is rounded to be met with a dead end.

An unexpected warm breath against your ear cements you into place, the gentle nuzzle of an arched nose against your jaw without being given a chance to process. Primo’s face buried in the crook of your shoulder may have been enough to hide Cheshire cat grin growing over his face but nothing could conceal the shiver that ran down your spine at the feeling of his leather clad finger tips teasingly trailing over your sides.

“Are you plotting something? I thought you knew where we were going.”

“Hmm?” A soft hum reverberates from his chest while he trails his lips over the corner of your jaw, evidently unbothered by your doubts. The chill of the autumn air was quickly rivaled by simmering heat that pushed through your veins upon being pulled closer to Papa followed by a tantalizing flick of his tongue over your ear lobe.

“Tell me, how does that old folk legend go? Of being caught in the wilderness with a vampire?”

“As much as I would adore a retelling, we need to get going. Everybody else we started with has already left us in the dust.”

“Precisely. All the better, no? No one around to hear you gasping for me.” Every nerve in your body tingled, whether it was from the adrenaline of being lost at night or Primo’s words was impossible to differentiate.

His fingers gently trace over the edges of your face as if to wipe away the smudged makeup but the question of if he simply intended to make it even worse arose when a smug smirk came over his face.

"I quite like a little fright on your face." He whispers, his tone taking on a darker, more seductive turn as his thumb brushed over your lower lip before moving back down over the nape of your neck.

“There is nothing wrong with trembling at the thought of what lurks in the dark..” the fluttering of his breath over your skin is enough to coax out a whine while Primo presses in closer to you, crowding over your figure with his own.

“After all, what is prey who is not fearing of the hunt?”

“Is that what you’re doing? Hunting me?” The opportunity to taunt him while he’s on his high horse is impossible to resist and you jump on it, eager to gain back your confident footing. An amused laugh, dark and creaking comes from Primo as the grip on your sides just under your ribs tightens.

“Of course I am, amore.” His nose runs along the vein of your neck in a way that was enough to believe he could drink in your scent in a single breath.

“And I will always catch you.” The threat falls at the small of your throat, as sharp and pointed as the fangs of the creature your Papa imitated. Barely audible whispers breeze against your skin causing goose bumps to wash over your flesh even more effectively than the autumn chill in the air.

“Always watching you. Pursuing you. Always chasing you.”

“Have you forgotten, piccolo mostro?” The small sliver of space between you felt electrified, your breath caught frozen in your throat.

“This is the part where you run.” That rolling R vibrated a blooming fear into your chest, and with one well timed glance only to see the satisfied smirk on the man’s face, you bolted in to the endless twists and turns of the maze.

"Oh, Girasole, where do you think you're going?" Primo laughs as he watches your retreating figure take off, the sound thick and near menacing as it reached your ears. Always playing hard to get, but Primo was not one to let that stop him from having his way.

"That's it. Run." He whispers to himself as his muscles tense in anticipation, the words falling on deaf ears as your foot steps mix with the crunch of gravel further and further away. But the chase has only just begun.

All at once the Papa's instincts kick into gear as he races after you, weaving through the rows of maize while his eyes scan every angle possible to track any sign of movement that didn’t originate from the ground underneath his feet. With every move he makes, his breath catches as he chases after his prey, his heart still thundering in his chest well after pausing to listen for any hint of motion. The faint rustling of dried leaves feels closer to an assault on his ears considering the silence that had now blanketed the field and the pursuit resumes once more as Primo stalks closer to the barrier that separated him from his prize.

Several yards over, just mere rows away the searing burn in your legs finally demanded that you stop to calm the panting breaths that were heaving from your chest. Spinning around to try and gain your bearings seemed fruitless, every intersection of this place was identical to the untrained eye. The thought of surrendering to whatever your Papa had in mind grew more appealing as your head sunk into your hands in an attempt to focus on what routes you had already taken, from entering the maze up to now. Had you passed the scarecrow that sat guarding its own pumpkin head at the dead end to your left before? It’s carved grin seemed to mock you and without a second thought your shoe connects to the side of it with a quiet thud and a grunt of frustration.

“What’s wrong? Can’t find your way out?” Immediately your head snaps up but no time is wasted searching for the source of the taunt, instead opting to rush directly into the wall of corn next to you regardless of what was supposed to be a blockade. There’s a flurry of footsteps and a grumbled accusation of cheating but nothing, no one, trails behind you as you continue to push your hands through the crowded corn stalks. Rigid stems whip across your face and forearms relentlessly with a force that was almost certain to leave sore welts once the adrenaline filled excitement wore off.

The thrill of this renewed game of cat and mouse begins to wane as the realization of having no idea where Primo was hiding hits you. Perching precariously on top of a tree stump a few feet away allows you to stick your head above the top of the maze, hunting the hunter. Without the sight of any movement to give away his location, you settle on swiveling around to see if any route to the finish line can be found. If you kept testing your luck pushing through the walls it would be almost a straight shot, but the noise of doing so is a dead give away itself. A blurred flash of red in the corner of your eye freezes you in place, the wood beneath your feet now more like a sticky glue trap than a look out as you rapidly cycle through your options.

Now that your research time had been cut short, simply memorizing the path to freedom seemed as good of a bet as any and you hop back down to the ground as quietly as possible while repeating the directions to yourself. Left, straight, right, left, straight, then right once more. Then you were done. You win. You would win and could hold it over Papa’s head, gloat a little, see what you could get away with and the possibilities brought a blush to your cheeks.

Getting through the first three intersections was easy enough, effortless, even considering the way your lungs were practically begging for relief once more. Your wits returned after that second left turn and an eerie quiet washed over the fields once more. With how quickly the nagging feeling of being watched was building you nearly expected Primo to pop out from right behind you once more. The once gentle autumn wind had built into what felt more like a glacial freeze as the sun went down while the only sources lighting your path now was the strings of small bulbs hung through the sides of the maze. It was getting harder and harder to differentiate between the rustle of a breeze and foot steps creeping up on you.

All of 50 feet and one more turn was all that was separating you from victory but it still felt a world away from where you stood in place like a statue, fervently wringing your hands and listening to the chatter of drunken festival goers that were beginning to drown out any hope of pinning down the location of your Papa. Keep going straight. One more right turn.

A few stalks of corn being violently shaken roused your attention back into the real world, the sound carried through at least a few turns, hopefully. He was trying to weed you out, scare you out of the corn with enough noise to make you think he had found you. The threat was enough to jolt you back into movement, sprinting on through the intersection and hanging that very last turn in the matter of a minute.

Rows of glowing Jack-o-lanterns with crooked expressions marked the approach to the exit and a preemptive smug sense of confidence took over you. You slowed down as the crowd’s noise filtered back in, gleeful couples of love birds and groups of people passing by the tiki torches that were lit at the end of the path. One young teenager even stopped to cheer for you as she saw you approach, clapping her hands and whooping dramatically before her face contorted into a grimace. Did you really look that rough? Sure that run through the corn probably did a number on you but you couldn’t look that bad..

As quickly as that confidence had appeared, it went up in flames in an instant when the air was drained from your lungs in a vice grip. Greedy fingers latched onto your sides as you stumbled backwards with a swift yank of your weight.

“Caught you, amore.” A familiar growl rumbled like thunder in your ear and sent a trembling shiver down your spine as his body pressed against you.

“You’re mine.”

microdosing on self love by projecting my insecurities onto fictional characters and loving them

Heads and Stones...

"Upon resisting capture, the Saint poised its head on the outside wall of their church to make an example of their prowess and to ward off spirits from the building"

"-that the ministry demoted and made an example of the previous Papas, both tearing down figures of their own faith to illustrate a point."

Those words gave me a funky feeling in my brain. Can't stop thinking about the fact how Terzo had his head cut off in parallel to the Saint cutting off the gargoyle's head, especially since, as you said, to "illustrate a point." I don't know if that was canon or not, but it's a good headcannon.

I forgot to mention this in my last ask but "would "100% insist upon perching himself in a reading chair while you sleep "just in case." Is he batman? Gargoman? [insert really terrible gargoyle/batman combination name i do not have the current creativity to figure out]-man, dare I say?

I don’t think that making an example of the previous Papas is explicitly said but it’s heavily implied imo especially with some of the promo content that’s rather comparison heavy between Secondo to Terzo and then from Terzo to Cardinal Copia. I actually didn’t even consider the connection of that story to Terzo until I posted it but now I’m DEFINITELY thinking about it.

I’m also pretty bad at mashing names together but I would like to offer Batoyle because it makes me laugh.

The 1994 Gargoyles TV show is atleast 98% of the source of my fixation with them, maybe I could smush one of their names with Secondo… Goliath is the one who reminds me most of him but I don’t think there’s even a chance of a non-gibberish result of that lmaooo