ghostly shadows

“They became for ever invisible save to him that wore the Ruling Ring, and they entered into the realm of shadows. The Nazgûl were they, the Ringwraiths, the Enemy’s most terrible servants; darkness went with them, and they cried with the voices of death.”
 ― J.R.R. Tolkien

Imprisoned in ashes
was my wired heart
as it got used
to listen
with ears wide open
to the muggle’s blues.
lion eyes shining
like transparent doves
inside the lonely shadows.
metallic bones poking out loud at
signs of innocent love,
nurtured meditative metaphors, like
“I watched leaping the nine cloud in a tedious grotesque dream”.
Inside the dungeon
creeped the pixies dust
that derailed the madness on the wrong track.
I’ve waited with my brain in my mouth
and hoped for hours alone
as the theatre of pain
chipped the luster of the marigold throne.
I slipped and cried, I slipped and cried
behind the putrid roses shroud
until the strangeness of the night
unfolded surprises,
gruesome monsters such as
fearless dragons and clouded ghosts.
I stuffed all at once
inside the bottled sadness jar
and flew with them in one hand over the nearest shore..
threw the bottles over the nearest shore….into the wounded blood of the ocean.
lost mission accomplished.
I’ve no soul.
I’m a morbid robot from an alien land.
I’m here to spy on humans
and deliver lost bottled sadness to my boss.
I’m a working class punk hero.
I’m smart and soulless.
But I’ll never forget how my heart
got imprisoned in ashes,
I’ll never forget how I thought
I’d once a retched heart
and a beautiful place to embrace for a moment.

open starter // idek 

      Fear sat heavy in her bones as she woke, blinking. Her heart hammered in her chest as she felt too hot in her own skin. It was a dream, just a dream, right? A realization it took her too long to get to. It had been so vivid, so real. Adrenaline still coursed her veins as Vilja rubbed at tear streaked cheeks; her brain hadn’t made the difference between what was real and what was not. But it had been real a long time ago and panic and emotions came back rolling over her in full force.

      It did not matter that it was in the past. It did not matter that the feeling of oppressing, calloused hands where merely ghostly memories– shadows of the past. She still felt them, felt the disgust bubbling up and bile at the back of her throat. It still left her weak and trembling, feet drawn up against her chest as she tried easing herself.

Samhain. S/C Style...

Happy Samhain, my lovelies. 

New Sam/Cait fic in honor of the season. Join me, if you dare…

Originally posted by horrorandhalloween

Something about Samhain

Sam’s POV

I’ve never been one for costumes on Halloween. I dress up for a living with makeup and such, so the need to do it at a party seems slightly irritating to me. But that doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy seeing others do it.

I shifted my wolf mask from my face to the top of my head, the elastic tugging on my straightened hair. I dip my hairy gloves into the crisp bowl and take more than my share before popping them into my mouth, crumbs falling on my black t-shirt as I absently wipe them away.

It’s Saturday, October 29, 2016, just a couple of nights before Samhain. Eerie adornments litter the pub from this way to that. The glow of softly lit strings of lights die against the centuries old wood rooftops as Jack-o-lanterns flicker in darkened corners, casting ghostly shadows to play across the walls as couples everywhere seem to use the night for re-kindling other flames. Mostly in states of rapid undress.

The party is dying down and I have seen no sign of my woman in (presumed) red. Caitriona had gone into Edinburgh for a spa day with friends, a promise of re-emergence at this party still waiting to be fulfilled.

I take another swig of beer, the ginger taste quickly lost as I scan the room once more. I had met up with some friends of ours earlier, but most have either left or can only be found in silhouettes along the wall.

The music in the evening started with a mixture of silly Halloween songs before gradually becoming edgier. Sexier; until finally the well-known guitar licks of Sweet Dreams comes on. Marilyn Manson’s voice creeping its way cross the dancing floor, overtaking the crowd, strobe lights entrancing me as if stuck in the middle of a theatre, watching those in front of me about to be sacrificed on the silver screen.

A dark-haired lass breaks through the crowd almost in slow motion, like the virgin, walking straight toward her own slaughter. Her bright blue eyes finally find me, and as if playing my role, I walk steadfast toward her.

I pull her into my body and tug at her crimson lips with fever. My prey drops her basket of flowers, scattering daisies around us as if we were encased in coffin together. The music percolates her skin and she gives herself to me, arms wrapping around my head. I pull back and scan her eyes for any doubt. There is none.

My wolfed-out hand grazes her cheek under her red hood, the long nails scraping down her jawline, her neck, tracing across her exposed pale, iridescent skin. I lean in, the cape hood pulled back slightly, and lick her outer ear slowly. A shiver works through her body.

“I’ll take you to grandma’s house, little girl.”

Her breath hitches. The song plays on, bellowing out the speakers with fierceness, but I can still hear the change in her breathing. Can still feel it. She is a part of me, and I her. My blood bubbles in my veins as her fingers grip the leather of my jacket. Her body sways slowly, as if in a hypnotic state.

“Trust me to show you the way,” I pull back and see into her eyes with, I can only imagine, is the evilest look I have ever given. She almost looks frightened, but I know it isn’t. It’s desire. I don’t feel quite myself right now, and she must feel the same. All I know is that I need to be inside her quivering, wetness. I long to be scarred by her scorching heat.

I lift my hand in offer. Without a broken gaze or a blink of interruption, she takes it. I pull down my mask, covering my features, and lead her away from the fornicating limbs in black and white.

We push through the crowd like ghosts, scarcely being noticed until we reach the cloak room. I wrench her inside. There is no door and I just push her against the wall. I leave the mask and bend lower, running my hands up her calves and under her dress. Her thighs open wider and I watch as her head rolls to the side as my nails scrape lightly across her wet lower lips.  She is so wet and I can feel the heat from her pussy. Her sex fills the room with the most intoxicating scent, driving me mad as I pull the mask from my face and dip underneath her dress in search of nourishment.

My tongue finds hers in moments, her wetness coating my lips, traveling a road down my throat it has so often done before. Her hands come down to her skirts, my head feeling their weight as she fucks my mouth.  My hands push apart her lips, delving in as deep as possible into the quarry of wetness.

I feel her hands push me harder, nails digging into my scalp, as her hips grind in motion with my tongue. Her breathing is labored and comes in sharp gasps and straggled moans. My thumb plays with her entrance as my index finger pushes inside her backside. She jumps against me as I latch onto her clit and she jerks above me, her liquid flooding my tongue as she cums with a fierce cry only drowned out by the music.

I lap her pussy clean and carefully, little jolts from her body occasionally jerking through me, before coming out from under her dress.

The background music has changed a time or two, but as I crawl up her shaking body and peer down at her exhausted form, my devilishness has not been satiated. I scrape a nail across her corset, eyeing it with a hint of anger. It teases me. It gives me a glimpse of her breasts, but keeps the ever-succulent nipple tucked safely behind its confines.

She catches me looking and runs her hands up and down my thighs before an adventurous one seeks excitement elsewhere and cups my package, straining agonizingly against my black jeans.

“My my,” she says, “what a big package you’ve got there.”

It could have sounded corny. It could have sounded ridiculously silly. But it didn’t. Falling from her lips, it was the most seductive song I could ever hear.

I smile, unzip, pull out, push up her skirts, lift her up and ram home, all in the same line of lyrics to Bloodletting.

I’m only still a moment, allowing the heat to radiate through my body, “All the better to fuck you with” I whisper in her ear before I begin to punish her body.

She returns my assault in kind; grasping my hair and pulling me into her. She licks my neck as her hood falls behind her, sucking and nibbling, before finding my mouth again.

I don’t know if we were kissing. Our breathing too labored for our mouths to properly seal, but our breath, each hot and spicy, breathed by the other. We hear noises to our right and turn to see a younger couple fall against the wall a mere 10 feet away, laughing and kissing.

Our eyes are fixed on them but our movements don’t cease. They finally catch sight of us, shadows moving too quickly to be ignored, and while we’re certain our faces cannot be seen, we both dare them silently to keep watching.

This is what true need is, I think as I push in deeper and deeper. But I feel our audience’s eyes on us longer than necessary. My grip tightens on her ass and back in possession, leaving my mark.  

Point taken. Our un-wanted companions leave us and I feel my head roll back and to the side. I’m close. My thrusts become jagged and messy. I feel her lips on my neck again. Her nips and licks urge me on and I’m just about to pass over to the other side when I feel her teeth pierce my skin and I erupt inside her in a quake strong enough to bring down the walls between this world and the next for good.

I stay inside her as long as humanly possible before I slip out. My cock drained of every ounce of semen. Her legs fall from my waist as I slowly let her down. I touch her chest, by her heart and she mirrors my actions. I feel a smile cross my face before finally allowing my eyes to finally seek some light and open.

Our foreheads touch and I touch her face again. She pulls back taking my hand, petting the hair and feeling the fake nails.

“You got full prosthetics on your hand? I’m impressed.”

I scoff, “I just made you cum and that’s what your impressed with?”

“Well,” she smiles, shyly, “I know you’re not a big fan of Halloween costumes.”

“Anything for you, Caitriona. Anything. Including the copious amounts of moisturizer I’ll have to put on my hands after I take the hair off.”

“Hmm,” she says absently stroking the fake hair, “maybe I’ll be nice and let you use mine.”

I kiss her, the gentlest I’ve done since the night began, and rub my forehead against hers before pulling back and feeling my neck where she bit me.

I make a noise I can’t even decipher, rubbing the sore spot, checking for actual blood, satisfied in not finding any, I cease my actions. “Makeup is going to kill you on Monday if I have bite marks. Since when was Little Red Riding Hood a vampire.”

“Sorry. Something about the music and lights and…” she admits, “well, the night.”

“Aye. The night.”

Frozen II: The Trolls Must Die

Inspired by @foreverfrozensolid


AND LO, in the second year of her reign, it became clear to Elsa, sovereign of Arendelle, mistress of ice and snow and all the forces that whirl like the Wild Hunt on a winter’s night, she who was Most Beloved by her people… that those mountain magic makers, the trolls, were… idiots…

Morons. Imbeciles. Doofuses.

By subtle art, they had held sway across the ages, these trolls. With flashes of light and other parlor tricks, they convinced all human folk of their skill in sorcery… and of their wisdom.

But wisdom they did not offer. These same trolls had spake in ominous tones in Elsa’s childhood, cryptically spilling forth vague words of dread that had sewn themselves in Elsa’s young heart and in the hearts of her parents. They had conjured horrific sights for the royal family – of ghostly shadows crashing down upon poor Elsa like a wave.

Anyone with wisdom would have clarified, explained. Anyone with sense would have given comfort to this distraught little party come in the dead of night… instead of fanning the flames of their fear. Yet, the trolls did not.

Unjustly condemned, had been the noble and piteous King Adgar, for he saw visions like a mob before his eyes, ready to tear his daughter all to pieces. What would any father do in the face of that, but try to keep his daughter safe from those who meant to do her harm? Witchery is not always so well-loved, after all…

And the king had spoken of his plans before the trolls… They did not set him on the true path, they did not warn him of the consequences, they that seemed to have the power of Sight…

For a long while, Elsa had hoped that this was merely the way of the Fairy Folk, hoped that they simply spoke in riddles when communing with mortal beings. But this was not so, for they spoke plainly enough to Anna and to Kristoff and even unto Elsa herself.

The more time Elsa spent with them, the more their folly and their pride was made plain.

Had not these trolls refused to listen when Anna and Kristoff came to them, desperate for help? Had not they tossed Elsa’s fragile sister about, not caring about her protests, because they had their own selfish interests in mind?

Had they not tried to marry Kristoff and Anna right there… not knowing how long they had known each other, not knowing yet if they had affection for each other, not caring that Anna was already engaged? Anna’s wishes were naught to them, indeed! They knew nothing of Hans’s duplicity, did they? And if they did, they did not warn of it.

And these trolls called themselves love experts?! Had they really taught Kristoff not to jump into marriage, they who were more than willing to push together two people themselves? Was this cruel hypocrisy or sheer lunacy?

The more the good queen thought, the more ire grew in her. At last, with all the force of a new-forged sword, she made her way to the Valley of the Living Rock.

And Grand Pabbie quailed, for he saw he could no longer deceive the queen. He saw that his mightiest weapon, the Awesomely Authoritative Voice of Ciarán Hinds, could no longer do him good. For the queen now realized that the command in his voice was mere ruse and reputation, so that others might look on him with reverence.

And so Elsa smote him and the trolls were scattered like rocks in an avalanche. They banded together to strike the queen, but silly, they were, and could do naught against her.

And so it was that the gracious queen wreaked vengeance upon and laid low these trolls, these bumbling fools and pretenders.

I know this has probably been said, but there needs to be a Princess and The Frog World in KH3. If they can add Frozen and Tangled, then I’m sure it could happen. I mean there would be so many exhilarating themes, and endless ideas for battles.

And can you imagine fighting against the ghostly Shadow Man as a BOSS? 

Having Sora and the gang step foot into his eerie lair with all this around

This girl would pay every cent to see this happen.   


Chapter One - Turning

(Based on this prompt: “d/p is a vampire and turns the other by accident, and they end up having to look after them through their newborn stage. And it just develops from there and they do the frick frack and stuff”)

WN: assault, violence, blood, smut (just a handjob), swearing, brief self-harm trigger (like there’s a knife and a wrist but it’s vague)

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