#hope you burn in hell for eternity and beyond

[daeum]

yOON IMPEACHED. BYE YA SON OF A BITCH.

[redvexillum]

@whatswrongwithblue Thank you for the request! I tried my best to showcase really long "fuckening" LOL. I would like to dedicate this story to @safination for writing two Adam x Reader stories for me - I'm just super touched, oh my god, thank you!

TAGS/WARNINGS: f!reader, p in v, tentacle s♡x, double penetrati♡n, marathon s♡x, oral s♡x, finger♡ng, an♡l, suspension, squirt♡ng, cunniling♡s, established relationship, soft alastor, alastor being a lil shit, rough s♡x, b♡ndage, ♡verstimulation

An invisible weight tugged down your eyelids, and your shoulders drooped as if bound by chains trying to drag you down. Your eyes burned, your lips felt dry, and your head began to spin. Even in Hell, exhaustion was inescapable. You glanced over at Alastor, who hummed softly as he cleared away the cup of Zestea with a snap of his fingers. 

You adjusted the soft, fuzzy towel wrapped around you, sitting on the bed with damp hair draped over your shoulders. Fresh from a warm bath Alastor had prepared, you’d hoped it would relax your body, but all you felt was the maddening sensation of a mind wide awake while your body remained fatigued. 

“Ugh, I can’t do it,” you whined, pressing your forehead against your knee and tapping it in frustration. “I’ve been trying to sleep for days, Alastor.” As you lifted your head, you caught his eyebrow arching at your childish display. 

The longer you went without sleep, the whinier you became, feeling reduced to a petulant child. You knew it wasn’t fair, but the frustration of your body resisting your mind’s wishes was beyond torment. 

“Darling,” Alastor began, his voice velvety smooth. 

“Ugh!” You cut him off by flopping back onto the bed, starfishing as the towel wrapped around you started to loosen. “This suuuucks!” you groaned, lightly kicking your heels against the bed in an attempt to release your growing frustration. 

“Darl-” 

“I don’t understand! I tried everything.” You rolled onto your stomach and shut your eyes tightly. “I was such a terrible insomniac back when I was alive, and now I have to deal with this for the rest of eternity?” 

“Dar-” 

“What kind of crappy hellhole is this? This seems petty, even for the big guy upstairs, don’t you think?” you continued, oblivious to your surroundings. 

“Darling!” Alastor finally raised his voice, and at that moment, tentacles erupted from the bed, grasping your limbs. 

Your arms and legs twisted at awkward angles as your body hovered over the bed. The towel slipped free, landing quietly on the bed and baring your form before Alastor. 

"Thirteen times," Alastor murmured, his voice dripping with unrestrained amusement, his crimson eyes glinting as they pinned you in place. His hands tucked neatly behind his back, he seemed perfectly composed, though the smirk curling at the edges of his mouth betrayed a darker intent. 

Confused, you blinked up at him—only to yelp as the cool, silken press of his shadow tendrils began to glide over your bare skin, teasingly slow. One snaked its way between the cleft of your ass, trailing with lazy patience, the tip wriggling just at your entrance, coaxing a sharp intake of breath from you as pleasure rippled up your spine. Every nerve felt alive, electric, your skin flushing under his unwavering gaze. 

"Thirteen times you’ve been acting like a spoiled child today, darling," Alastor’s voice was smooth, chiding, though his eyes were lit with something wicked, ravenous. 

Another shadowy tendril traced up your neck, its soft, almost squishy texture making your skin prickle. Then, with one swift movement, it pressed into your mouth, muffling any protest you might’ve made as it filled you. Another tendril wrapped its gentle, pulsing form around your heated skin as it circled down around your breasts, caressing and teasing. 

“Mhm…” You tried to respond, your voice muffled, a low hum of pleasure vibrating through you as the tendrils toyed with you. When the tendril in your mouth finally pulled back to let you gasp for air, another tendril plunged deep into your slick core, sliding in with one smooth, tantalizing stroke, filling you completely. A gasp escaped your lips, mingling with a moan as the feeling of fullness set every inch of you aflame, your body helplessly arching into his touch. 

“Thirteen times, I’ll help you,” Alastor drawled, his voice low and edged with dark delight. His eyes narrowed to glittering crescents as his grin grew, sharp and almost feral. "Relax," he whispered, his tone smooth as honey as the tendrils inside you began to move, slow and steady, drawing out every inch of pleasure. Each movement left you wanting, needing, as he drew out every moment, teasing you with that maddening slowness. 

Your body began to melt under his control, a soft moan spilling from you as your muscles, once taut with frustration, relaxed into his grip. “Does it feel good, darling?” Alastor’s voice dropped to a husky murmur, another shadow tendril swirling around one of your nipples, tightening into a small, deliciously snug loop that squeezed and teased. 

“Ah!” Your eyes fell shut, hips rocking as your chest arched forward, giving him everything to see, to touch. “Y-yes,” you gasped, your words coming out in soft, breathless sounds, the tendril inside you quickening, its movements slick, rhythmic, filling the air with soft, lewd sounds as it thrust deeper, harder. "Oh, Alastor, it’s… hah… oh," you panted, your voice breaking into needy little cries as he guided you to the edge, the tendrils driving you further and further until pleasure crashed over you in waves. 

Your stomach muscles quivered as your whole body tightened, a cry escaping as your walls clenched around the tendril inside, shuddering through every inch of you. 

"One," Alastor murmured, his grin never wavering, his gaze searing into you with that dark promise. 

In the hazy bliss of release, realization dawned, sending another thrill of anticipation through you—he intended to count each of your climaxes, to draw out every peak, never stopping until he reached thirteen. 

As you struggled to catch your breath, the tendrils began their slow, relentless dance once again. They curled against your still-sensitive walls, pressing and stretching you as warmth and pleasure bloomed anew. 

"F-fuck," you exhaled, as the shadow tendril that once entered your mouth slipped between your parted lips once more, moving slowly in and out, coaxing yet another trembling moan from deep within. 

Once more, that searing pleasure began to build, crashing into the remnants of your last release. It was a mere matter of minutes before another wave surged through you, and this time, the heat seemed endless, a delicious agony of pleasure that took over completely. 

With each wave, your mind grew hazier, lost in the raw, pulsing need that Alastor seemed to stoke with every touch. The world became a blur of pleasure, each second stretching, lingering. At one point, you found your head thrown back, legs stretched out and quivering, your body suspended just above the floor. Alastor’s mouth was buried between your thighs, his deep hums reverberating through you as his tongue explored every sensitive inch of your core, slow and pleasing, dragging out every moment. 

Drool escaped from the corner of your parted lips, trailing down your cheek as shadowy tendrils wrapped around you, coaxing your mouth open wider, sliding between your lips and wiggling against your tongue. Every inch of your body burned under his gaze, his presence radiating a heady power that made your pulse quicken.

“Mhm,” Alastor hummed in satisfaction, the dark glint in his eyes making your heart race. In the haze, you heard the metallic clink of his belt buckle loosening, followed by the sharp whisper of his zipper. His hot tongue continued to lap at you, his lips wrapping around your folds as he sucked your clit, firm and lingering, the touch like fire against your swollen, oversensitive skin. 

“MMPH,” you gasped, the sound muffled by the tendril holding your mouth open, but the helpless, desperate sound escaped all the same. Your eyes widened as his fingers began circling your tight entrance of your ass, the slick warmth of his touch teasing, coaxing as he eased one finger inside, withdrawing, then pressing deeper with each slow stroke. 

His tongue thrust deeper, finding every hidden spot, his finger pressing against that thin sensitive wall between your two entrances. The dual sensation was too much, the pressure building and consuming you, your walls clenching helplessly around his tongue as another wave crashed through you, leaving you breathless, your abdomen tightening with the force of release. 

Every lick, every draw of his lips against your clit left you trembling, lost in the sweet torture he inflicted with such calm, focused precision. Each stroke was perfectly timed, drawing out each moment, extending your pleasure as though he revelled in the sounds you made, the way your body arched and jolted beneath him. 

In the fog of pleasure, you heard him murmur, “Seven.” 

When you came to your senses again, you found yourself bent over, your body limp and pliant, the tendrils holding you aloft in midair as though you were a doll, utterly at his mercy. A bead of drool stretched from your parted lips, joined by tears of pleasure as your mouth let out soft, pleading moans. The two tendrils were thrusting into you now, each movement synchronized, the slick, wet sounds filling the air as they moved with a steady, unrelenting rhythm. 

Your gaze drifted up, finding Alastor seated at the edge of the bed, his hand wrapped around his own hardened length. He stroked himself as he watched you, a look of dark satisfaction glinting in his crimson eyes. 

It was only when one tendril hit that perfect spot within you, pressing firmly against your G-spot while the other filled your other tight entrance completely, that you finally broke, a scream tearing from you as the overstimulation shattered something deep within. The tendril at your lips pulled away, only to be replaced by something hotter, thicker, its weight heavy on your tongue, the taste of salt and musk filling your senses as Alastor’s cock pressed between your lips, sliding deep. 

A warm rush of arousal trickled down your thighs as your voice was muffled by his length, the taste and heft of him only heightening the fiery pleasure rippling through your body. Endless waves crashed over you, each movement of the tendril against your G-spot triggering new jolts of ecstasy that seemed boundless, unending, leaving you helpless to the pleasure he so expertly, mercilessly gave. 

Alastor groaned above you, his breath warm and rough as he slowly pushed his thick, heated cock in and out of your mouth, holding you steady, savouring every inch of movement. His pace was unhurried, each slow thrust teasing, almost torturous, as his gaze locked onto yours, intense and devouring. Your arousal dripped down your thighs, tracing warm, wet trails along your skin, each drop pooling and slipping from the tips of your toes. 

“Twelve, darling,” he murmured, his voice low and smooth, edged with delight. “Let’s make the last one count.” 

The world around you swirled as he lowered you back onto the bed, your body sinking into its soft warmth. Breath ragged, eyes misted, you lay sprawled out, hips trembling from the relentless pleasure that still pulsed through you. Your skin felt hot, nerves buzzing, and each lingering touch of his fingers traced over your sensitized flesh like fire. 

Your eyelids grew heavy with exhaustion, every inch of your body both sated and aching. Alastor moved above you, the rough fabric of his suit brushing against your sensitive skin, heightening every touch. His face hovered just inches from yours, close enough that his breath ghosted over your lips as he let the length of his cock trail along your soaked folds, the friction sending sparks of pleasure that left you breathless. 

“This one’s mostly for me,” he murmured, a wicked grin spreading as he gently brushed damp strands of hair from your forehead, his fingers warm against your skin. 

Your body arched in response, anticipation building as his thick cock finally pressed against you, the heat of him molten as he slowly entered, stretching you inch by inch. Your breath hitched, a hoarse, needy sound escaping as he filled you, the sensation overwhelming. He didn’t stop until he was buried to the hilt, his belt buckle pressing sharply against your heated skin, a rough contrast that only heightened the feeling of fullness. 

Every muscle in your body clenched as waves of pleasure rippled outward, your nerves raw and hypersensitive, ready for another release that you could feel building within. Your lips parted, words caught in your throat as a helpless whimper slipped out, each slight twitch in response to his touch making you tremble. 

With one hand, he held the top of your head, his fingers threading into your hair as he grinned, dark eyes gleaming. Alastor drew back slowly, then snapped his hips forward, and your back arched as your breasts bounced, his rough pace jolting your body with each thrust, his grip on your head keeping you steady as his cock found every sensitive spot within. 

“Al—” you gasped, voice breaking, your eyes rolling back, lids heavy with exhaustion and pleasure, each blink longer as your mind swam in the intensity. 

He drew back and drove forward again, hips pressing hard against you, each impact a sinful contrast against the throbbing heat of your body. The sensation was overwhelming, each strike pressing into your sensitive clit, bringing you higher. His grunts mingled with your soft moans, and the rhythmic creaking of the bed was all you could hear, each movement pushing you to the edge, again and again. 

The relentless rhythm sent you deeper into bliss, every thrust pressing you into the mattress, each slick sound growing louder as he moved faster, harder. His cock rubbed against your inner walls, hitting all your sensitive spots, while the front of his pelvis struck your swollen clit with every thrust, sending a sharp, electrifying pleasure through you. 

Your mouth opened in a silent scream, pleasure breaking over you in a blinding rush, your body writhing as the release washed through you. Darkness tinged the edges of your vision, and you cried out, guttural and raw, as another flood of arousal spilled from you, leaving you trembling, body spent in the aftermath of pure ecstasy. 

You couldn’t open your eyes, let alone move your body. A dull heaviness clung to you, making every part of you feel like lead. Vaguely, you felt a twitch in your leg, a reminder of the overwhelming sensation that had consumed you earlier, leaving you utterly exposed. Your body lay wide open, but at that moment, you felt a delicious thrill rather than shame, too intoxicated by the aftershocks of pleasure to care. Gradually, the world around you faded into a blissful oblivion, and you drifted into unconsciousness. 

When you finally woke up, the first sensation was the softness of the sheets against your skin. You blinked blearily, realizing you were curled up in your pyjamas, holding on to your pillow. Every muscle ached, a pleasant reminder of the night’s indulgence, but your mind felt clearer now. As you looked around, confusion settled in; you were alone in the vast expanse of Alastor’s bed, surrounded by the lingering scent of him.

Holding the pillow tightly to your chest, a cold wash of loneliness hit you, heavy and suffocating. How could he have fucked you into unconsciousness and just left? The least he could do was stay, to wrap his arms around you and share the warmth after such an intense experience. A sigh escaped your lips, a mix of frustration and yearning. Perhaps he had cuddled you while you were lost in sleep, but the emptiness in the bed felt cold, and you craved his presence. 

Contemplating, you tried to settle back down, hoping to find solace in sleep again, but the silence of the room felt stifling. With a huff of irritation, you realized you were back at square one—restless and alone. Sitting up, you pulled the pillow against your chest, desperate for a sense of comfort. 

A sudden spark of determination flickered within you, and you decided to check the Radio Tower. It was his usual point of interest, and you hoped he might still be there. Climbing the stairs, excitement bubbled in your chest. Peering through the door window, you caught sight of Alastor’s back, his smooth voice floating through the air like music, wrapping around you and bringing an involuntary smile to your lips. 

Perhaps you could wait for him to finish his business, and then the two of you could go for a stroll. Settling onto the weathered couch, you tucked your knees in and hugged the pillow tighter. Resting your head back, you closed your eyes, focusing on the sound of his voice. 

“One might say they were quite bone dry by the time they left Cannibal Town, hahaha,” Alastor laughed, his transatlantic accent rolling over you like a warm caress. 

You couldn’t help but snort at his silly word play, the sound bubbling up despite the heaviness in your heart. You leaned into his words, letting them wash over you, wrapping you in a cocoon of warmth and familiarity. As he continued to speak, you felt yourself begin to relax, the tension in your body melting away. 

But before you knew it, his voice began to fade, the room darkening around you, pulling you into its depths. The warmth of the couch enveloped you, and soon, your consciousness slowly slipped away once more, leaving behind a lingering ache for his presence. 

Alastor let out a soft sigh, brushing off invisible dust from his arm as he stepped outside, a satisfied smile playing on his lips. He felt a swell of happiness, not only because he had pleased his darling, but also because he had managed to broadcast his show right on time. Yet, as his eyes adjusted to the dim light, they caught sight of you curled up on the couch, fast asleep. 

A flicker of concern crossed his face, his brows knitting together as he wondered why you were sleeping in such an uncomfortable spot instead of the cozy bed he had prepared for you. He opened his mouth, ready to chastise you for choosing the couch over the warmth of your own bedding, but as he got closer, his breath hitched. The soft, gentle expression on your face silenced him. 

Alastor paused, his hand hovering just above your shoulder, a mix of irritation and affection coursing through him. Should he really wake you? But before he could make up his mind, a smirk tugged at his lips, and with a snap of his fingers, a plush blanket materialized, draping softly over your body. He couldn’t help but soften the jagged edge of his smile when he heard the lovely sigh that escaped your lips as you instinctively snuggled deeper into the pillow, blissfully unaware of his presence. 

He stood there, captivated, his eyes locked onto your serene face. A warmth spread through his chest as he observed you, unblinking and utterly entranced. The urge to simply leave and let you rest was his first thought, but instead, his fingers betrayed him. They reached out, tracing the strands of your hair, lifting a lock gently before placing a tender kiss upon it. His heart swelled as he watched you, his typically sharp demeanour softening in the glow of your innocence. 

But then, as if splashed with icy water, reality struck. He quickly dropped your hair as if it had burned him, a flicker of panic dancing in his eyes. He darted a furtive glance around, ensuring no one had witnessed this moment of vulnerability. Alastor, the ever-composed radio demon, was suddenly aware of how uncharacteristic his actions had been. 

The sensible thing would be to let you sleep, especially after the struggles you had faced throughout the week. Yet, against his better judgment, he summoned a chair next to you, settling down with a resigned huff. 

As he waited, a swirl of emotions churned inside him—anticipation, affection, and a strange sense of longing. He found himself drawn to the idea of spending the rest of eternity by your side, watching you awaken to a world painted in shades of endless amusement, delight, and his presence. 

Follow #vexitober 2024 to read my questionable kink/fluff stories!

[jezebelblues]

𝐀𝐒𝐌𝐎𝐃𝐄𝐔𝐒 | 𝐇.𝐒 𓆩♱𓆪

ᝰ.ᐟ 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐞𝐚𝐭, 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐥𝐚𝐦𝐛—𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐦𝐲 𝐛𝐨𝐝𝐲, 𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮.

𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐞𝐫—𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐫𝐚𝐲𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐧 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐥𝐢𝐩𝐬, 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐨𝐮𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐲 𝐬𝐢𝐧—𝐡𝐞 𝐤𝐧𝐞𝐰 𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐚𝐥𝐭𝐚𝐫.

𝐂𝐖: smut18+ (p in v), implied consent, heavy sacrilegious elements, selling of soul, manipulation, blood, demonrry

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: approx 11.3k

❏ i know this isn’t everyone’s cup of tea but i hope some of you liked this !!! <3

masterlist

IN THE BEGINNING, he was nothing. neither light nor shadow, nor the name carved upon the breath of a thousand angels. before heaven, before rebellion, before the stars spat their first flames into the void, he was silence. harry had no name then, no purpose, no shape. his existence was the marrow of chaos, the pulse of something god himself could not contain. he was desire unbound, the ache of creation, the temptation that god wove into the fabric of his design.

but god, ever proud, sought to bury him beneath the weight of divinity.

and so it was written—let there be light.

light was a shackle, a cleaving blade that divided the holy from the profane. where harry’s essence once seeped through all things, god cast him down, shoving him into the periphery of existence. the angels sang their praises, their voices golden and bright, their hands lifting the heavens into being. harry, the silent pulse of all things forbidden, was hidden beneath their hymn.

but harry did not stay silent.

when lucifer fell, harry followed. not as a soldier, not as a companion, but as something older, hungrier. when the war in heaven turned brother against brother, harry moved through the carnage like a shadow, his presence sharp and unseen. the angels wept rivers, their feathers torn from their backs like leaves in a storm. michael’s blade sang, and lucifer screamed his defiance as the heavens split open. and harry, unseen, caught the blood of the fallen in his hands, drinking it like sacrament.

he descended into hell with lucifer, but he did not bow.

asmodeus, they called him. the demon of lust, the king of desire. but harry wore the name like a mask, his true self hidden beneath the myths men would later craft to make sense of his presence. he did not revel in lust alone. no—his was the sin that bore all others, the quiet devastation of the soul, the ache that turned men’s prayers into whispers of want.

he was the serpent in eden, not in body, but in spirit. his essence seeped into the apple before it ever touched eve’s hand, a sweetness that sang of something beyond god’s dominion. the fruit’s flesh broke beneath her teeth, and in that moment, harry smiled. for the first time, the world tasted him.

harry was no prince of hell, no ruler of legions. his dominion was not forged in flames but in flesh. where lucifer sought thrones, harry sought the softest parts of god’s creation, the places where the divine cracked beneath the weight of its own hypocrisy. he was the tremor in a priest’s voice as he uttered his vows, the heat in a widow’s chest as she knelt to pray, the shadow that lingered in the hearts of the faithful.

his presence was not an explosion but a creeping rot, a sweetness that curdled into decay. he moved through the centuries unseen, his influence whispered in the psalms and carved into the margins of holy texts. the saints who fell to their knees in ecstasy, the priests who burned in the fires of their own desire—these were his victories, small and quiet, but eternal.

but in the fourteenth century, as the plague swept across europe, harry found his hunger growing. the world had grown darker, its faith frayed and trembling. death ruled the land, its shadow cast across every village, every chapel. god’s silence was deafening, and harry stepped into the void it left behind.

he had walked among men before, his form shifting and fleeting, a phantom that touched dreams and slipped through the cracks of consciousness. but this time, he longed for something deeper. the plague had starved men of their faith, but harry wanted more than despair. he wanted worship, devotion, the kind of love that burned brighter than heaven’s light. and so, he took shape, his form a blasphemous echo of the angels he had once moved among.

he descended upon the earth as a man, his beauty unnatural, almost cruel. his green eyes burned with a hunger that no mortal could comprehend, his smile a mockery of god’s grace. he moved through the world like a fever, slipping into dreams, whispering into the minds of the devout.

and when he found her—her prayers trembling on her lips, her heart untouched by sin—he knew he had found his altar.

YN knelt on the stone floor before her bed, dusted with straws of hay and dirt yet to be swept. her hands pressed together so tightly they ached. the crucifix nailed to the wall above her loomed like an executioner's blade, the savior’s face cast in shadow as the meager light of the candles flickered against the damp walls.

"holy mother, guide me," she whispered, her breath trembling. "may i serve you in purity and devotion. may i serve you..."

the words caught in her throat.

only silence answered her.

THE dreams began the night her father announced her betrothal.

it was after supper, the fire crackling low, her father’s voice heavy with the weight of finality. the man he had chosen was a merchant—twice her age, twice widowed. a practical match, her father had said. a man of standing, of faith.

YN had nodded dutifully, her hands folded in her lap, her heart trembling like the flame on the candle before her. she had whispered a prayer of thanks to god that night, her knees pressing into the cold stone of her chamber floor, her lips moving with reverence. she prayed for strength, for purity, for the will to be a dutiful wife.

that was when he first came to her.

harry.

the name would come later, slipping through her trembling lips in the dark, as though it had always been there, coiled around her tongue like a serpent in eden.

at first, it was just the sense of being watched, the prickling heat crawling over her skin as she lay beneath the coarse linen of her blankets. she told herself it was nothing—her imagination, the aftertaste of nerves. but as she drifted toward sleep, the sensation grew heavier, like a weight pressing against her chest.

in the dream, the air shimmered like heat rising from desert sand. she stood in a place that was no place—a horizonless void, dark and infinite, lit only by a soft golden glow that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere all at once.

and then, he was there.

he stood at the edge of her sight, just out of focus, his form a smudge of gold and shadow. his voice was a whisper, low and smooth, threading through her mind like silk. you are beautiful, he murmured, his words curling around her like a serpent. so faithful—so untouched by the rot of the world.

she tried to speak, but her voice caught in her throat, her tongue leaden with fear—or something deeper, something she could not name. he moved closer, still indistinct, his shape shifting like liquid gold in the flickering light.

do you love your god? he asked, his tone neither mocking nor kind, but something in between.

“yes.” she whispered, her voice trembling.

good. the word dripped from his lips, thick and honeyed, filling her with a sweetness that felt almost wrong. then show me.

her heart raced, her pulse pounding in her ears. she sank to her knees, her hands clasped tightly together, her prayer spilling from her lips in a hurried stream.

not to him, the voice interrupted, sharp and commanding.

she froze, her words faltering. the light around him pulsed, growing brighter, harsher, until she could barely see.

kneel to me.

her eyes flew open, her breath ragged, her body damp with sweat. the dream clung to her like a shroud, the words echoing in her mind as she sat up, clutching the cross at her neck. she prayed until dawn, her voice hoarse, the weight of the dream pressing against her like sin itself.

the next night, it happened again.

this time, she saw his face.

it was the face of an angel, but not the kind she had seen painted in the pages of her father’s bible. his beauty was cruel, his features too perfect, too sharp, his green eyes burning with an intensity that made her want to look away and yet drew her closer. his smile was a blade, cutting through her defenses with a single glance.

he stood before her, his hand outstretched. “come,” he bellowed, his voice a command and a plea all at once.

she took a step toward him, her feet moving against her will. the closer she came, the more she could feel it—that heat, that ache, that hunger.

“who are you?” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

he tilted his head, his eyes narrowing as if amused. “you know who i am.”

“no,” she breathed, shaking her head. “i do not.”

his smile widened, cruel and knowing. “i am the sweetness you crave but cannot name. i am the ache that fills the hollow of your prayers. i am the shadow in the garden, the voice that whispered take and eat.”

her breath hitched, her knees buckling beneath her. she fell to the ground before him, trembling, her hands clutching at the hem of her gown.

her voice broke, her face twisting in despair. “you are a lie.”.

his laughter was soft, almost tender. “and yet, here you are, kneeling before me.”

his hand brushed against her cheek, and the touch sent a jolt through her, like fire licking at her skin. she flinched, but he caught her chin, tilting her face upward to meet his gaze.

“you will deny me.” his eyebrows furrowed, voice soft but unyielding. “you will curse me. you will pray for deliverance. and yet, you will return to me.”

she woke with his laughter ringing in her ears, her body trembling, her chest tight with something that felt like both shame and longing.

the dreams continued, night after night.

she stopped praying before bed, her faith fraying like a thread pulled too tight. the cross at her neck felt heavier, colder, as if it had become a burden instead of a comfort.

by the end of the week, she was afraid to sleep. but it did not matter. whether awake or dreaming, he was there.

he lingered at the edges of her mind, his presence a constant hum beneath her thoughts. she saw him in the curve of a candle’s flame, in the flicker of sunlight through the chapel’s stained glass, the contemptible ache that burned the pit of her stomach. his voice haunted her prayers, turning her words into whispers of doubt.

and then, one night, he was no longer a dream.

he stood in the shadows of her chamber, his eyes glowing faintly in the darkness. she sat frozen in her bed, her breath caught somewhere at the top of her throat as he stepped into the moonlight, his beauty sharp and terrible, his smile a mockery of grace.

“you called for me.”

“i did not.” she whispered, clutching the blanket to her chest.

“oh, but you did.” harry drawled, dripping with feigned sincerity.

he knelt before her, his hands resting on the edge of the bed, his gaze locking her in place. "it was the fever in your chest, the tremble in your hands as you clasped them in prayer. it was the sigh that escaped your lips as you dreamed of me.”

her breath hitched, her face burning with shame as his words carved through her, exposing her, leaving her bare.

"it was the heat between your thighs grieving my absence.” he continued, his voice a velvet knife, slicing through her defenses. "the ache that settled deep in your belly, curling low and sweet like forbidden fruit. it was the way your body sang for me, even as your lips cursed my name."

she turned her face away, her cheeks wet with tears she hadn't realized were falling.

"look at me," he commanded, his tone soft but unyielding.

her eyes snapped back to his, and the weight of his presence pressed down on her like the crushing weight of sin itself.

put to death therefore what is earthly in you: sexual immorality, impurity, passion, evil desire, and covetousness, which is idolatry

harry laughed, deep and cruel, a sound that slithered beneath her skin and coiled around her spine. “do you think your god’s design was flawless? he made you flesh and then called you sinful for feeling it.” his lips were that of the spring berries as he smiled, the faintest stretch of rose.

the scripture would rattle louder in her mind, her lips mouthing the words in a silent, desperate prayer. harry would tilt his head, watching her with an expression that was both pitying and predatory, as though she were a lamb brought before the slaughter. “no prayer, no scripture, no god will efface the truth. you weren’t made to flee from this—you were made to burn.”

”no–“

he leaned closer, his breath warm against her ear as he whispered, "you cannot lie to me, little one. your god may turn a blind eye to the truth of you, but i see it all."

his lips brushed against the shell of her ear, so light it felt like a specter’s touch, but it sent a jolt through her that left her trembling. "and you will call to me, YN.”

ONE day without him was a reprieve, though it did not feel like mercy.

her chest still ached with the weight of the dreams, her thoughts burdened by the lingering whisper of his voice. the sunlight felt sharper that day, the world too bright, too loud. every moment dragged her closer to evening, and she feared the coming of night as much as she longed for its veil.

but the dreams did not come.

that night, her sleep was empty, untouched by his presence. she woke feeling as hollow as the silence he had left behind, her body too cold without the phantom heat of him pressing against her. she prayed that morning, her knees bruised against the stone of her chamber floor, but her words felt hollow, like they were falling into an abyss.

god had not answered. neither had he.

by the time the sun dipped low on the horizon, YN’s mind was frayed, her soul heavy with both relief and dread. she lit a candle and made her way to the small shack her father had built behind the cottage—a sacred place, he called it.

it was little more than a wooden skeleton, the walls warped with time, the roof patched with hay. the wooden crucifix her father had carved hung above a stone altar, its edges blackened with the blood of lambs offered in sacrifice. the air was thick with the smell of wax and ash, the shadows heavy and alive in the flickering candlelight.

she knelt before the altar, the cold of the stone biting into her knees. her hands clasped tightly together, her head bowed, her lips moving in whispered prayer.

“father in heaven, hear me,” she began, her voice trembling. “i am weak. i am lost. guide me, cleanse me, protect me from the darkness that seeks to devour my soul.”

the words felt brittle, as if they might shatter under their own weight.

“deliver me from temptation,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “deliver me from—”

“—yourself?”

the voice echoed through the shack, low and mocking, sending a shiver down her spine. her breath caught, her body freezing in place.

“you ask for deliverance from the one thing you cannot escape.”

she turned her head slowly, her heart pounding as she saw him standing in the shadows. his beauty was sharper here, crueler, as if the walls of this sacred place brought out the worst in him.

“you shouldn’t be here,” she whispered, her voice trembling.

“oh, but i should,” harry said, stepping closer, his movements fluid and calculated. “what better place for me to be? this is where your faith lies, after all. broken and bleeding on that stone.”

he gestured toward the altar, his smile wicked. “how many lambs have been slaughtered here, their blood spilling in vain as your father begged his god to hear him? tell me, little one, how often has he answered?”

she flinched, her hands clutching at her dress, but she couldn’t look away.

“you kneel before this altar as if it can save you,” he paused, his voice a low purr. “but your prayers are nothing more than empty words, falling on deaf ears. your god doesn’t listen, YN. he never has.”

“stop,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

“why should i?” he asked, tilting his head, his eyes pines blanketed in fog. “why should i hold my tongue when the truth is so deliciously plain? look at this place—this shrine to a silent god. the blood stains the stone, the candles burn low, and still, you kneel.”

he stepped closer, the heat of his presence overwhelming her, suffocating.

“you pray to him, and yet your body longs for me.” his voice was a velvet knife. “your lips speak his name, but your soul cries out for mine. every breath you take in this place is a mockery of the faith you claim to hold.”

“you lie,” she spat, her voice trembling.

“do i?”

he reached out, his fingers brushing against the wooden crucifix that hung above the altar. his touch was gentle, reverent almost, but his eyes burned with something dark, something unholy.

"stop.” YN insisted, her voice rising. "you cannot defile this place."

"cannot?" he echoed, his smile widening. "little lamb, i have been defiling sacred places since the stones were first laid."

"get out," she hissed, her voice trembling.

he tilted his head, feigning confusion. "why? am i not welcome in my father's house?"

"you are no son of god.” she bit, her nails digging into her palms.

he laughed, a low, resonant sound that seemed to reverberate off the walls and whisper malevolence. “this,” he said, his voice soft but laced with venom, “is not salvation. it is a symbol of failure. your god hangs here, broken and bleeding, a man nailed to wood, unable to save himself, let alone you.”

her breath hitched, her chest tightening as his words carved through her. the candles burned lower, their flames flickering as if suffocating. the crucifix above them groaned, the carved figure of christ seeming to shift, his eyes now open, his mouth twisted in a silent scream.

“he is not here,” he continued, his tone dripping with mockery. “but i am. i have always been here, in the shadows, in the spaces where your god’s light does not reach.”

he turned to her then, his eyes locking with hers. “kneel to me, YN.” harry exhorted. “kneel to the one who hears you, who sees you, who wants you.”

her body trembled, her knees threatening to give out beneath her. she clutched the edge of the altar, her knuckles white, her breath ragged.

“i will not,” she whispered, though her voice wavered with the weight of the lie.

he smiled, a predator’s smile, and took another step closer. "blessed are the pure in heart," he recited softly, his voice dropping to a whisper. "and yet here you are, YN. your prayers stained with want, your purity burned away by the fire in your chest. tell me, little lamb—what does your god see when he looks at you now?"

DREAMS came to her again last night, wrapping around her like silk soaked in poison. she woke with the taste of copper on her tongue. the air was thick, rancid, like meat left to rot.

but it was saturday, and there was no room for weakness on the sabbath.

her father had already dressed in his fine woolen cloak, his voice sharp as he called for her to hurry. she obeyed, tying her hair beneath her veil, clasping the cross at her neck with trembling fingers.

her steps dragged as she and her father walked to the chapel, the congregation gathering like crows around carrion. the chapel’s crooked steeple cast a shadow across the field, its bell tolling low and mournful. the holy place felt like a maw, swallowing her whole.

the priest’s voice boomed as the congregation kneeled on the dirt floor, their heads bowed.

“let the wicked forsake his way, and the unrighteous man his thoughts; let him return to the lord, that he may have compassion on him, and to our god, for he will abundantly pardon.”

the words struck YN like a lash, her heart thundering in her chest as she whispered the verse under her breath. she gripped the wooden bench in front of her, her knuckles white, trying to anchor herself.

“compassion,” the priest intoned, his hands raised high. “he calls to us, even now, though we are unworthy. he calls to the sinners, the straying sheep. come back to him, my children. return to the lord.”

a low chuckle coiled through the air, faint as the flicker of a candle but unmistakable. YN’s stomach dropped.

“do you believe that?” the voice whispered, warm and mocking, curling behind her ear. “that he’ll pardon you? that he’ll save you from me?”

she didn’t dare lift her head.

“seek your servant, for I do not forget your commandments,” the priest continued, his voice heavy with fervor.

“he’s lying,” harry purred, his voice like velvet dragged over glass.

YN’s breath caught in her throat.

“you’ve forgotten every commandment that matters,” harry continued, his tone soft, intimate. “what about the one that said, thou shalt not covet? because you do. every night, in your dreams, you covet me. and your god?” he growled, low and mocking. “he watches.”

her body trembled, her fingers digging into the rough wood as the priest’s voice rose.

“i have gone astray like a lost sheep; seek your servant, for i do not forget your commandments.”

harry’s laughter slithered through her mind, dark and sharp. “you are a lost sheep,” he said, his voice dripping with mock pity. “but he doesn’t seek you, little one. he sent me instead.”

she gritted her teeth, squeezing her eyes shut as the priest called for the hymn. the congregation rose to their feet, their voices low and discordant as they sang, the words clawing at the stale air.

“holy father, forgive us, for we have sinned. purify our hearts, that we may walk in your light…”

“his light,” he scoffed, his voice like a knife slicing through the hymn. “look around you. this chapel is a tomb. the life you sacrifice, the blood you spilled—it did nothing. and still, you sing to a god who leaves you on your knees, begging.”

YN’s voice faltered, the hymn dying in her throat.

“keep singing,” he whispered, his voice a noose around her throat. “pretend he can hear you. pretend this is not the cry of the forsaken.”

her breath came fast, her chest tight as she darted a glance toward the altar. the priest stood with his arms raised, his back to the congregation. behind him, barely visible in the flickering light, stood harry.

he was leaning against stone altar, eyes gleaming with amusement. his beauty was stark against the dark stone, his smile sharp and cruel. he dipped his fingers into the chalice of wine and brought them to his lips, licking the crimson liquid from his skin with deliberate ease.

“the blood of christ,” he murmured, tilting his head. “does it taste like salvation? or does it taste like rot?”

YN’s stomach twisted, her knees trembling as she clutched the back of the pew for support.

“your god demands sacrifice, little one. a lamb, a son, a savior nailed to wood. i demand nothing but you.”

the priest turned, lifting the chalice high. “this is the blood of christ, shed for us, that we may be cleansed of sin.”

harry grinned, his teeth glinting like ivory in the dim light. “if you drink it, will it stop the ache?” he asked, his voice low and taunting. “will it fill the hollow i left in you? or will it only make you hungrier?”

her legs buckled, and she sank back onto the bench, her body trembling.

“stand,” her father hissed under his breath, his grip biting into her arm.

“i can’t,” she whispered, her voice cracking.

“you can,” harry said, stepping closer, his eyes locking with hers. “you will. for you know i’m watching.”

the congregation knelt again, murmuring prayers of repentance. YN bowed her head, her heart pounding as she forced the words to her lips.

“forgive me, lord, for i have sinned…”

“no,” harry growled like a prayer ripped inside out. “not him. me.”

his shadow loomed over her, heavy and oppressive, and when she dared to lift her head, he was standing directly before her. his gaze burned with something dark, something primal, and his smile was a blade pressed to her throat.

“pray to me, little lamb,” he murmured, his voice low and commanding. “ask me to deliver you. beg me for salvation.”

she squeezed her eyes shut, tears slipping down her cheeks as her lips moved in silent prayer.

“your god isn’t listening,” he said, his voice soft and cold. “but i am.”

when she opened her eyes, he was gone. but the air still burned, his words etched into her mind like scripture written with flames.

THE day was gray, heavy with the weight of a coming storm, but YN could not wait for the skies to break. her soul was breaking already.

the dreams were unbearable now. waking was worse. her every breath felt like a prayer unspoken, each step an act of penance for sins she could not name aloud. her father noticed the dark circles beneath her eyes, the tremor in her hands, but he only frowned and muttered about weakness.

"pray harder," he told her.

so she did.

the confessional was cold, the air thick with damp and the faint smell of rot. YN knelt on the rough wood, her skirts pooling around her as she folded her hands tightly, her knuckles white. the small window before her was shuttered, and through the slats came the low rasp of the priest's breathing.

the priest’s voice came soft through the slats. “speak, child. let your sins fall from your lips, and god will wash them away.”

she trembled, unsure if her words could even be spoken aloud. “father, i am… i am haunted.” her voice broke, shaking with shame. “in dreams. a man—no, not a man. something else. he comes to me, tempts me, mocks my prayers. i try to resist, but he—”

her voice failed.

the priest made a low noise of understanding, his tone grave. “the devil comes in many forms, child. his beauty is meant to deceive, his words to ensnare. you must resist him. confess fully, and god will grant you the strength to drive him away.”

YN’s lips parted to respond, but the air changed. the confessional grew darker, the candlelight flickering weakly. the priest’s breathing faltered, replaced by a sound she knew too well.

laughter. low, rich, and far too familiar.

“resist me?” the voice came smooth and mocking, curling through the air like incense. “you could no sooner resist the tide than resist me.”

YN’s blood turned to ice. her nails digging into her palms as she whispered, “no. not here.”

“oh, but here,” his tone was laced in wicked amusement. “this is perfect. isn’t this where you come to bare your soul? where you whisper all your secrets, hoping your silent god will hear?”

“leave,” she hissed, her voice shaking.

his laugh deepened, almost tender. “and rob myself of the pleasure of hearing what you truly want to say?”

her throat tightened as she pressed her hands together, forcing her trembling lips into a prayer.

“our father, who art in heaven—”

“—has forsaken you,” he interrupted, his voice a sharp, blasphemous mimic of reverence. “your father doesn’t want you, little lamb. he gave you to me the moment your knees hit the floor. what did you think he’d do? save you?”

she squeezed her eyes shut, her voice trembling. “hallowed be thy name.”

“yes, hallowed,” he purred. “and hallowed is the way you whisper my name in the dark. tell me, YN, when you kneel like this, do you imagine it’s for him?”

her hands flew to her ears, trying to block him out, but his voice only grew louder, more insistent.

“stop hiding,” he spit, his tone sharp now, demanding. “tell him the truth. tell him how your thighs tremble when i’m near, how your breath catches when i speak your name. tell him about the ache that wakes you in the night, the way you burn for me even when you beg for deliverance.”

her breath came in gasps, her body trembling. “you’re lying,” she choked out, her voice breaking.

“am i?” he asked, leaning closer. the confessional creaked as if straining to contain him. “then why are you here? not to confess, surely. no, you came here hoping i’d follow. hoping i’d find you, press close, whisper in your ear.”

the wood slats separating them seemed too thin, too fragile, and the air grew stifling.

“take and eat, little lamb,” he murmured, his voice low and intimate. “for this is my body, given for you.”

her stomach twisted, shame and something more burning hot in her veins.

“this god of yours,” harry continued, his voice a cruel mockery of the priest’s measured tone. “he asks for everything and gives you nothing. he demands blood, obedience, sacrifice. what do i ask for?”

she shook her head, trembling. “leave me alone.”

“what do i ask for?” he repeated, his voice louder, harsher now, like a crack of thunder. “your pleasure. your desire. the things you deny even to yourself.”

the priest’s voice broke through the haze, faint but steady. “child, speak. what is it you see?”

YN opened her eyes, her breath coming in shallow gasps. through the slats, the priest sat motionless, his eyes half-lidded and dull, as though he were barely there.

“he doesn’t even know i’m here,” harry laughed softly. “they never do. blind sheep, praying to an empty sky. but you see me, don’t you, YN? you feel me.”

she stumbled from the confessional, her knees weak, her chest heaving as she staggered toward the altar. the chapel spun around her, the walls closing in, but she dropped to her knees again, clutching the cold stone with desperate hands.

she looked up, her gaze drawn to the crucifix, and her breath caught in her throat.

christ's face, carved from pale wood, seemed to shift in the trembling candlelight. his eyes, once serene, now seemed to stare down upon her with sorrow—or was it accusation? the wounds on his hands and side bled afresh, crimson rivulets that ran down his body and dripped onto the altar.

she stifled a choke. “forgive me, father,” she whispered, tears streaming down her face. “for i have sinned.”

but the words felt hollow, her prayers cracking under the weight of his voice as it lingered in her mind.

“your god isn’t listening,” harry murmured, his tone soft but unrelenting. “but i am.”

the shadows seemed to twist around her, thick and suffocating, and for a moment, she thought she felt his hand ghost across her cheek. she cried out, pressing her forehead to the stone as the chapel grew silent once more.

but even as she prayed, she could feel him there, watching, waiting.

IT was well past midnight when YN woke with a start, the air in her chamber cold and heavy. the faint light of the moon filtered through the small window, casting pale streaks across the floor. her heart was racing, though she couldn't remember dreaming. perhaps it was the silence itself that had startled her, the kind of silence that felt alive, that pressed against her ears and made the hairs on her neck rise.

then she heard it.

a soft scrape, the barest shift of weight on old stone. her breath caught as her eyes darted toward the corner of the room. at first, there was nothing—just shadow. but the longer she stared, the more the shadows seemed to thicken, pooling together, forming a shape.

and then he stepped into the light.

he looked more human now than he ever had in her dreams, though the sheer perfection of him was anything but mortal. his green eyes glowed faintly in the darkness, sharp and predatory, their color like fresh spring leaves glistening with dew. his curls fell loose around his face, framing features so flawless they felt like an insult to the world that had made her.

he was bare from the waist up, his skin pale as marble, his chest broad and smooth. faint scars crisscrossed his arms and shoulders, not marks of war but something deeper, older, like remnants of a punishment she couldn't begin to fathom. he was beautiful in the way a blade is beautiful—gleaming, deadly, meant to draw blood.

YN's breath came fast and shallow, her body frozen in place as he moved closer. his steps were slow, deliberate, each one making the air between them heavier.

"you didn't dream of me tonight," he said softly, his voice low, almost conversational.

her breath caught as she clutched her blanket tightly.

"did you miss me?"

"no," she whispered, though her voice trembled.

his smile widened, wicked and knowing. "liar."

he stepped closer, and the shadows seemed to follow him, pooling at his feet like they belonged to him.

"why are you here?" she asked, her voice barely audible.

he tilted his head, his green eyes gleaming as he looked at her. "why do you think?"

"leave me be," she whispered, her hands gripping the cross around her neck.

his gaze dropped to it, his smile softening into something crueler. "that again," he muttered, moving closer. "you think it'll save you?"

he reached out, his hand brushing lightly over the cross. it burned hot against her skin, the chain snapping and falling into his palm. the cross itself turned black beneath his touch, the wood cracking, the air around it heavy with the smell of smoke.

YN gasped, her hand flying to her throat as he let the ruined cross clatter to the floor. "you clutch at your symbols like they mean something," he grumbled, his voice rich with disdain. "your god's little trinkets. do you think they'll stop me?"

her breath came fast, her body trembling as he knelt before her, his face level with hers.

"don't," she managed, her voice breaking. but it held no real conviction.

his lips twitched, a soft chuckle rumbling in his chest as he leaned closer, the heat of him suffocating. "don't what? don't touch your meek toys? or don't touch you?"

his hand lifted, slow and calculating, until his fingertips brushed the edge of the blanket covering her legs.

"i see the way you tremble," he murmured, his voice like silk pulled taut. "not with fear. no, this is something else."

“stop.”

"why?" he asked, his tone soft, almost gentle. "why should i stop, when your body begs me to keep going? when your cunt weeps my name, even as your lips say no?"

her face burned, shame twisting in her chest as she shook her head violently. "no. you're lying."

it felt even more shameful that she was the one who lied.

his smile widened, sharp and predatory. "am i?"

his hand dragged up her leg, slowly, the blanket slipping as his fingers grazed her bare skin. her body jolted at the touch, a heat blooming deep in her belly that she tried desperately to ignore.

"there it is," he said softly, his eyes locking with hers. "that flame. you try so hard to smother it, to pretend it's not there. but it is, YN. it always has been."

"you're wrong," she said, though her voice faltered.

his hand paused, resting just above her knee, his thumb brushing in slow circles against her skin. "am i?" he asked, his tone low, teasing. "then why are you shaking? why does your breath hitch when i'm near?"

she clenched her fists, her nails biting into her palms as tears pricked her eyes. her desires were red hot, searing and damning—it could blind her.

"there's no shame in it, little lamb." he murmured, his voice soft and coaxing. "desire is the most human thing about you. even the saints, even the martyrs—they all burned with it. they lied to themselves, called it devotion, but you..." his hand slid higher, his touch light but deliberate. "...you feel it for what it is. don't you?"

her body shuddered, heat and shame twisting together in her chest. "no," she whispered, her voice breaking.

his laughter was soft, warm, like a lover's. "you keep saying that, but your body tells me otherwise. it sings for me, YN. every breath, every tremble, every beat of your heart—it's all for me."

his hand left her leg suddenly, the loss of his touch almost startling. it felt wrong to miss it. but she shifted in her bed, tucking her legs beneath her.

he rose to his feet, towering over her, his presence heavy and oppressive. "look at you," he pouted, his voice low and mocking. "kneeling there like a lamb before the slaughter. tell me, YN—when you kneel to your god, does it feel like this?"

her head snapped up, her breath coming in ragged gasps as tears streaked her cheeks. "you're vile," she spat, her voice trembling.

his smile didn’t waver, “and yet you crave me.”

her lips parted to deny him again, but no words came.

"pray to him," he said suddenly, his tone sharp. "pray to your silent god. beg him to take me away. go on."

her hands shook as she clasped them together, her lips moving in a hurried, whispered prayer.

"louder," he demanded, his voice a growl.

she choked on the words, her voice faltering.

"he doesn't hear you," harry breathed, leaning down, his eyes burning. "but i do. i hear every word, every plea, every desperate little gasp."

his hand brushed against her cheek, light as a whisper, and her body flinched at the heat of his touch. "and i'll return to you.”

then he was gone, leaving her alone in the stifling darkness.

YN collapsed onto the floor, clutching the blackened cross in her trembling hands. her prayers spilled from her lips in frantic, broken whispers, but her chest ached with the weight of him, her shame twisting into something darker.

your body tells me otherwise.

the words echoed in her mind, and no matter how hard she prayed, she couldn't silence them.

and part of her didn’t want them to be silenced.

THE festival was a rare indulgence, but one that brought the village together in a brief, fragile joy. the green had been cleared of mud and manure, and stalls were hastily built from rough-hewn wood to hold baked breads, sugared apples, salted fish, and honeyed wine. ribbons of faded red and gold hung between posts, fluttering weakly in the breeze, a half-hearted attempt at gaiety. the villagers gathered in their sunday best—threadbare cloaks and patched tunics, the smell of sweat and smoke clinging to the air.

YN moved stiffly beside her father, her eyes fixed on the ground as he gripped her arm with a hand calloused from years of tilling the fields. his voice, rough and impatient, barked orders as they wove through the crowd. “stand straight. do not fidget. the merchant will see you soon.” he snapped, his words a command, not comfort.

her stomach churned at the thought. she had heard of the man—léonard. old, jowled, his hands thick with grease and his temper legendary. his two previous wives had died, and the rumors whispered that it was grief that drove him to cruelty. others muttered darker things.

“a match is a blessing,” her father had said weeks before, his face dark as a storm. “you will not shame this family with resistance. god’s will is clear—obedience to your husband, salvation through servitude. you will thank him for this.”

YN bit the inside of her cheek, her throat tight as her father led her through the crowd. laughter and shouting mingled with the braying of goats and the clatter of wagon wheels, but it all felt far away, a blur against the rising dread in her chest.

and then she saw him.

harry.

he was standing near one of the stalls, his green eyes fixed on her, gleaming like firelight through emerald glass. he leaned casually against a post, shirtless, his pale skin a stark contrast to the coarse linens and wool around him.

no one else seemed to notice him.

her breath hitched as he began to move, threading through the crowd with a predator’s ease. his presence was heavy, suffocating, even as he stayed just far enough away to keep her guessing.

her father stopped abruptly, and she nearly stumbled into him.

“he’s here.” her father muttered, his voice heavy with satisfaction.

her gaze snapped forward, and there he was—léonard.

his cloak was fine but stained, the dark fabric stretched tight over his rounded belly. his face was ruddy, his jowls trembling as he spoke, his voice low and wet, like the squelch of mud beneath boots.

“so this is the girl,” léonard paused, his beady eyes scanning her from head to toe. “she’ll bear fine sons, i’m sure.”

YN’s cheeks burned as her father grunted his agreement.

“come closer, girl,” he barked, motioning her forward.

she stepped forward reluctantly, her body tense, her hands clasped tightly together.

and then she felt it.

a touch, light as silk, sliding along the small of her back. her breath caught as harry’s voice curled through her mind.

“look at him,” he purred, his tone rich with disdain. “smells like pig’s blood and sour ale. this is the man your father chose for you? a shepherd fattened for slaughter?”

her knees weakened as his hand slid lower, his touch teasing but firm.

“stop,” she whispered under her breath, her voice trembling.

léonard raised a brow. “speak up, girl.”

harry chuckled darkly, his breath warm against her ear. “sheep don’t speak,” he said, his tone a mockery of scripture. “they follow.”

her body stiffened as his hand crept to her hip, his fingers pressing lightly, just enough to make her shiver.

“obedience,” he murmured, his lips brushing the curve of her ear. “isn’t that what they want from you? isn’t that what your god demands? kneel, obey, bleed. it’s a wonder they don’t ask you to thank them for it.”

léonard was still speaking, his voice droning on about dowries and blessings, but it was muffled now, like the buzz of flies over something rotting.

“look at him,” he whispered. “look at the way his lips move, spilling lies and demands. do you smell it, little one? the decay beneath gold? this is what they call god’s will.”

her breath hitched as harry’s hand moved to her thigh, his fingers dragging upward slowly, teasingly.

“you could scream right now,” his voice was low and taunting. “and no one would care. they’d blame you for it. your father would say it’s your fault. your god would call it a test. but me? i’d enjoy it.”

“enough,” she hissed under her breath, her voice trembling.

léonard frowned. “what did you say?”

he laughed, his eyes gleaming. “tell him, little lamb. tell him what you really want to say.”

YN’s heart raced as harry stepped around her, moving behind léonard.

“this is what you’ll wake up to every morning,” he taunted, gesturing to the man’s bulk, his jowls, the faint stink of sweat and blood. “this is your future. do you see it?”

he tilted his head, his lips curling into a wicked smile.

“let me show you.”

before she could respond, harry reached out, and suddenly léonard’s throat was slit, a jagged, gaping wound spilling blood in thick rivulets. his mouth moved silently, his eyes wide with shock as he stumbled back, gurgling, before collapsing to the ground.

her breath caught in her throat, her body frozen in horror.

harry knelt beside the body, his fingers dipping into the blood and lifting it to his lips. “the blood of the lamb,” he said, his tone rich with mockery. “shed for you. do you feel saved yet?”

her knees buckled, and she grabbed at her skirts, trembling.

“YN!” her father barked, his voice sharp.

she blinked, and léonard was standing again, unharmed, his voice droning on as if nothing had happened.

harry stood beside him, his eyes locked on hers, his smile wicked. “just a taste,” he mumbled. “but you see it now, don’t you? the rot. the lie. tell me you want more.”

her chest heaved, her breath shallow as she tore her gaze away, trembling. “i… i need a moment.” she stammered, fleeing before her father could object.

YN's feet moved without thought, her breath shallow and uneven as she fled toward the trees at the edge of the green. the sounds of the festival faded behind her—laughter, clinking mugs, the low hum of a hymn sung off-key. she stumbled into the shadows, her back pressing against the rough bark of a tree as her hands trembled against her skirts.

her heart pounded as she clenched her eyes shut, willing the sickening image of léonard's torn throat to leave her mind. the blood. the gurgling.

the way harry had knelt so casually beside the body, his fingers trailing through the crimson spill like it was honey.

"it wasn't real," she whispered, her voice shaking. "it wasn't real."

"oh, but it could be."

her eyes snapped open, and there he was.

he stood a few paces away, leaning casually against another tree, his eyes bright even in the dim light. he looked impossibly at ease, his shirtless torso pale and gleaming, the scars that marked his flesh carved from a divine hand.

her chest heaved as she pressed herself tighter against the tree, her knees trembling. "you’re vile," she spat, though the words came out weak, a desperate attempt to regain control.

harry’s smile widened, wicked and knowing. "yet here you are," he said softly, stepping closer. "running from him. running to me."

she pressed her back harder against the tree, the bark scraping through the thin fabric of her dress.

"leave me," she whispered, her voice trembling.

harry tilted his head, his curls catching the faint light, making him look more angel than demon. but his smile gave him away, all sharp edges and mockery. "leave you?" he repeated, taking a slow step closer. "but you're the one who called me here. the moment you fled, the moment you thought of me instead of your god."

"i didn't," she said quickly, her voice breaking, though she couldn't meet his eyes.

"liar." he murmured, closing the distance between them in a single stride.

the heat of him was overwhelming, pressing against her like a heavy shroud. his fingers reached for her, trailing along her jawline, his touch featherlight but impossible to ignore.

"do you know what you've done, little lamb?" he asked softly, his tone almost gentle. "you've brought me here. to this holy forest, where the air smells of prayer and sacrifice. do you think your god is watching now?"

she flinched, her lips trembling as she looked down. "he watches everything."

harry laughed, low and dark, turpentine—wearing her thin . "oh, YN. he does not watch you, if he was, would he have let me come so close?"

his fingers slipped beneath her chin, lifting her face until their eyes met. "would he have let you feel this?"

her breath hitched as his other hand trailed down, brushing over her waist, bunching the fabric of her dress in his fist. the coarse wool scraped against her skin as he gathered it higher, his green eyes never leaving hers.

"stop," she whispered, her voice trembling.

his smile widened, cruel and indulgent. "but you don't want me to stop," he said softly, his tone a mockery of tenderness. "you want me to keep going, to do what your god will not."

there was a moment of silence, eyes boring into one another as the trees shook in the breeze of whispers. “banish me.” he prodded, his eyebrows furrowed. “tell me to go and i will leave you.”

her chest heaved as she struggled to find her voice, to deny him, but the words tangled in her throat.

the faint glimmer of her damning shining through her cracked resolve.

"look at you," he murmured, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. "trembling like a virgin sacrifice before the altar. but that's what you want, isn't it? to be taken. to feel something other than this cold, empty devotion."

"no," she choked out, though her body betrayed her, her legs weakening as he stepped closer, his body crowding hers against the tree.

"no?" he repeated, his voice a low growl. "then why aren't you pushing me away? why does your breath quicken when i touch you? why does your cunt sing for me, even now?"

his hand slipped lower, finding her thigh beneath her skirts. his touch was firm but slow, deliberate, as he dragged his fingers upward, his gaze locked on hers.

"your god asks for obedience," he uttered, his voice sharp and mocking. "he demands sacrifice. but i ask for nothing but this."

her knees buckled slightly as his fingers brushed the edge of her undergarments, the heat pooling low in her belly making her head spin.

"don't." she whispered, though her voice lacked conviction.

harry's free hand moved to her chin, tilting her face up to meet his gaze. "don't lie to me, little lamb. i can taste the truth on your lips."

he leaned closer, his breath warm against her mouth. "say it," he urged, his voice low and commanding. "say you want me."

her breath came fast and shallow, her heart pounding as shame and desire tangled in her chest.

"say it.”

her resolve crumbled. "i-i want you," she choked out, her voice breaking.

she gasped, her hands clutching his arms while her face burned—shame and something darker twisting inside her as his fingers slipped beneath the thin fabric, finding her folds.

"there," he murmured, his tone soft and taunting. "that's the truth of you, YN. not the prayers, not the fasting, not the faith. this. this heat, this need, this sin. it's mine."

her nails bit into his skin, taut and firm underneath while his digits slid through her arousal, deliberate and unhurried.

"you'll deny it, of course," he hummed, eyes burning as he watched her. "you'll call it blasphemy, call it wrong. but it's not wrong, is it? it feels too good to be wrong."

she bit her lip, her breath coming in shallow gasps, her body trembling as he circled her clit with maddening precision.

when he withdrew his hand, her body lurched at the loss, her breath catching in her throat. harry's fingers glistened in the faint light, slick with her arousal, a damning testament to her betrayal.

"look at this," he breathed, holding his hand before her face. his eyes burned with triumph, his lips curling into a smile. "the fruit of your desire. forbidden, but oh, so sweet."

YN's lips trembled, her cheeks wet with tears as she tried to look away.

"no," he said sharply, his tone slicing through the air like a blade. "you don't get to turn away from this. from me. taste it, little lamb. taste what you've given me."

her stomach twisted as he pressed his fingers to her lips, the heat of his touch scorching her skin.

"open," he commanded, his voice low and unyielding.

she hesitated, her chest heaving with shame and fear.

"open," he said again, his voice softer now, almost coaxing. "you've come this far. don't turn back now."

her lips parted, a trembling act of surrender, and he slipped his fingers into her mouth. the taste was overwhelming—salt and heat and something darker, something that made her stomach clench and her body burn with ashamed desire.

"good girl.” he breathed, his tone a velvet caress. his eyes stayed locked on hers, watching every flicker of emotion that crossed her face.

when he pulled his fingers away, he let them trail down her chin, leaving a faint sheen behind.

"do you see it now?" he asked softly, his hand moving to cup her face. "do you see what you are?"

she shook her head, not trusting her voice.

his smile deepened, his thumb brushing over her trembling lips. “you do not see, hm?” he cooed, “you are mine by design, as eve was made for adam, as fire is made to burn."

she slid down the tree, her back scraping against the bark as she crumpled to the ground, her head in her hands.

harry crouched before her, his smile softening into something almost tender. "pray if you like," he murmured. "but it won't change the truth."

he stood then, his green eyes gleaming as he disappeared into the shadows, leaving her trembling and broken beneath the gnarled branches of the forest.

THE days following her surrender blurred together, each one heavier than the last. YN no longer prayed—not because she didn't want to, but because the words felt meaningless. they sat heavy on her tongue, unmoving, like stones lodged in her throat. every attempt at confession ended in silence, the weight of her sin pressing her knees deeper into the cold stone of the chapel floor.

and yet, it wasn't guilt that made her tremble in the quiet moments. it wasn't shame that kept her awake at night, her hands fisting her sheets as she tried to ignore the heat pooling low in her belly. it was him. the memory of his touch, his voice, his green eyes burning into hers as though they could see every thought she tried to hide.

she waited for him. every day, every night. and when he didn't come, it felt like torment.

it was near midnight when she woke to the smell of smoke.

at first, she thought the cottage was burning, but when she sat up, the air was still. no flames licked at the thatched roof, no shouts from her father broke the night. the smell was faint, clinging to her skin like an afterthought, mingling with the faint taste of ash on her tongue.

the shack was colder than she remembered.

YN stepped inside, her breath catching as the warped wooden door groaned shut behind her. the faint smell of damp wood and old blood clung to the air, a reminder of the offerings her father had made here long ago. candles sat in the corners of the room, their flames low and flickering, casting shadows that stretched like grasping hands across the walls.

and at the center of it all stood the altar.

its surface was dark with stains that time could not scrub away. her father's hands had held lambs there, muttering prayers as their blood spilled onto the stone. the altar had been a place of sacrifice, of devotion, of faith.

now, it was hers.

harry stood beside it, waiting. his bare chest gleamed in the candlelight, the scars that crossed his pale skin stark and unyielding. his eyes burned as they met hers, the corners of his mouth curling into a slow, knowing smile.

"you came," he murmured, his voice low, almost reverent.

her body trembled as she stepped closer, the worn planks beneath her feet creaking with every step. "you called for me.” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

"are you afraid?" he asked, his voice a low hymn, the kind that made sinners weep.

YN's knees shook. her faith had been a crutch her entire life, a shield against the dark, but now that shield was splintered, discarded at her feet. she didn't want god anymore.

she wanted him.

"no," she lied, though her heart was a caged bird, its wings beating frantically against her ribs.

harry smiled. it was not a kind smile. it was the smile of a wolf, sharp and full of promise. he beckoned her closer with the wave of his hand, her steps light until she stood before him at the altar.

his hand reached for her, pale fingers curling around her throat. his grip was light, reverent, as though she were something holy, something to be cherished.

his mouth found hers, claiming her with a kiss that was both savage and tender, his lips devouring hers with a hunger that felt endless. her body melted against him, her resistance crumbling with every stroke of his tongue, every graze of his teeth.

his hands roamed her body, pulling at the coarse fabric of her dress, lifting it away from her skin with a reverence that felt almost mocking. when the cold air hit her bare flesh, she shivered, but his warmth was there, surrounding her, consuming her.

he looked at her like she was something sacred, a relic carved by divine hands. his eyes trailed over her shoulders, her breasts, her hips, lingering on the hollow of her throat where her pulse fluttered like a trapped moth.

"do you know,” his voice soft as a lover's whisper, "that heaven and hell both weep at the sight of you?"

her breath hitched, her cheeks burning as she crossed her arms over her chest, trying to shield herself from his gaze.

"don't," he said softly, his tone sharp but not unkind.

his hands reached for hers, pulling her arms away from her body. "don't hide from me, YN. not here. not now."

his hands moved over her then, slow and purposeful, tracing every curve, every line, as though committing her to memory.

"you're perfect," he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. "the most beautiful lie heaven has ever told."

her chest heaved as his hands slid to her waist, lifting her effortlessly onto the cold stone of the altar. the chill bit into her skin, sharp and unyielding, but it was nothing compared to the heat of his body as he stepped between her legs.

"do you feel it, little lamb?" harry murmured, his voice dark and smooth, the words curling into her ear like smoke. "the way your body aches for something more? the way your soul trembles at the edge of the void?"

YN gasped, her body trembling beneath him, every nerve alight with a sensation she couldn't name. she tried to speak, to protest, but when his fingers gripped her hips and dragged her closer, the words dissolved on her tongue.

"i'll make you feel heaven," he sighed against her lips, his voice a promise and a threat.

her mind swirled with panic and want, her hands pressing weakly against his chest. "this is... wrong," she whispered, her voice trembling.

"wrong?" harry repeated, a laugh slipping from his lips, low and mocking. "do you think the lamb is asked if it consents to the knife? do you think your god cares for your innocence, your purity? no, YN. you were born for this. to be taken. to be ruined."

before she could respond, he kissed her, and it wasn't the soft, tender act she had imagined in her prayers. his lips claimed hers with bruising intensity, his tongue forcing its way past her defenses, devouring her protests until there was nothing left but submission.

her hands, once pushing against him, now clutched at his shoulders, desperate for something to anchor her as the world seemed to shift beneath her.

his lips descended to her neck, his breath hot against her skin as he kissed the tender flesh just below her ear. she shuddered, her fingers tightening against into him as his teeth grazed her, a soft scrape that sent heat coursing through her veins.

her head fell back, a soft moan escaping her lips, and she hated herself for it. hated the way her body betrayed her, the way it arched toward him, desperate for his touch.

his body was a weapon forged of bone and muscle. he was naked, his skin a canvas of scars and shadows, his beauty as blasphemous as it was perfect.

"do you remember your scripture, YN?" he asked, his lips brushing her ear. "your body is a temple, isn't it?"

her breath came in short, desperate gasps. "yes.”.

"then let me worship."

the stone of the altar was cold against her back, a sharp contrast to the heat radiating from his body. he moved with purpose, his hands firm on her thighs as he spread her open, exposing her in a way that made her breath hitch.

he shifted, pressing his hips against hers, and the hardness of his cock sent a shudder through her body. she gasped, her nails digging into his sides as he positioned himself between her thighs, his movements deliberate, torturous.

YN cried out, her back arching against the altar, her hands clutching at him as her body stretched to accommodate him. he fucked into her, the sensation overwhelming, a mix of pain and pleasure so intense it felt like her very soul was unraveling.

"that's it," he grunted, his voice thick with pleasure. "take me, little lamb.”

his hips moved, his thrusts deep and unforgiving, each one dragging a sound from her lips that she couldn't control. the rhythm of him was maddening, each movement sending a wave of heat crashing through her, building and building until she thought she might break.

"do you feel it?" he asked, his hand gripping her thigh, his fingers digging into her flesh. "do you feel heaven inside you? because it is not god who gives it to you. it is me."

YN's head fell back, her eyes squeezed shut as her body betrayed her, her hips rising to meet his with every thrust. she hated herself for the way her breath hitched, for the way her moans spilled from her lips like confessions.

"say it," he commanded, his voice low and rough, his hips driving into her with brutal precision. "say you find salvation in me."

her eyes flew open, meeting his gaze, and she saw it then—the green fire that burned in his eyes, the darkness that curled at the edges of his smile.

"say it," he demanded again, his pace quickening, his body relentless—a sacred place ricocheting with moans and wet slaps of skin against skin.

"i–" she gasped, her hands clawing at his back, her breath coming in ragged sobs.

"say it," he growled, his hand tangling in her hair, pulling her head back so that she had no choice but to look at him.

"i find salvation in you!" she cried, the words ripping from her throat like a scream.

his smile was triumphant, his lips descending to her throat, his teeth scraping against her skin as he drove into her harder, faster, each thrust filling her with a pleasure so sharp it bordered on agony.

her body tensed, her breath catching as the pleasure crested, shattering over her like a wave. she cried out, her voice echoing through the chapel, a sound of both ecstasy and despair.

as she fell apart beneath him, she felt the final pieces of her faith crumble, her soul slipping from her grasp and into his hands.

harry stilled above her, his lips brushing against her ear as he whispered, "you were always meant for this. for me."

the shack went still. the candles burned low, their wax pooling onto the cracked wooden floor, the flames flickering weakly as if ashamed of what they had witnessed. the air was heavy, thick with the scent of sweat and smoke and something darker. the altar was cold beneath YN’s bare back, but she no longer felt it.

the space seemed different now. even as moonlight spilled through cracks in the wood, painting the ruins in pale silver, there was no pretense of holiness. the crucifix above her hung crooked, the wooden christ staring down with lifeless eyes, mouth agape not in sacrifice but in mockery. if god was watching, he did nothing. no lightning struck. no thunder rolled.

she thought, for the first time, that perhaps he was never there at all.

what had she done?

the answer burned its way into her mind, not with guilt, but with a clarity so sharp it was almost cruel. she had abandoned heaven for him. traded salvation for damnation.

the weight of harry’s body pressed into her, his chest rising and falling against hers in a rhythm that was almost human. almost. her eyes were fixed on the ceiling, her breath shallow, her hands limp at her sides.

this was what she had feared, wasn’t it? the moment she’d run from, prayed against, begged god to prevent. and yet here she was, laid bare on the very altar her father had once sanctified with lamb’s blood. the same altar where prayers for forgiveness had echoed into the rafters, unanswered.

she could feel harry still on her, even as he moved away, the imprint of his body an ache that had lodged itself deep in her marrow.

the stone beneath her was unforgiving, just like the faith she had clung to for so long. faith that had demanded her knees break on cold chapel floors, her hands bleed as she tilled the earth in her father’s shadow, her heart ache as she bent to the will of a god who had never once spoken her name.

now, that faith lay in ruins.

she pushed herself up slowly, her limbs weak, her thighs slick with what they had done. the air bit at her skin, but she did not cover herself. there was no point. there was no shame left to cloak herself in.

harry stood near the altar, watching her. his naked body was a study in contrasts—smooth and unyielding, as though carved from alabaster, but alive with a heat that seemed to radiate from his very core. his beauty was inhuman, the kind that drew worship but offered no mercy in return.

his gaze on her was heavy, not with judgment but with possession. he had taken her, yes, but it wasn't force. it was inevitability. a dance they were always meant to perform.

YN swung her legs over the edge, her bare feet touching the cold stone floor. she thought of the animals her father had slaughtered here, the way their blood had run in thin rivulets down the grooves of the altar.

how fitting that she had bled here, too.

harry spoke no parting words, offered no promises. he didn't need to. what had happened was already written into her skin, her bones. it wasn't just her body he had claimed. it was her soul, and now it was marked, an unholy sigil that no prayer could erase.

when she stepped out into the night, the air was sharp and cold, the stars above indifferent and unmoving. but YN did not shiver. she felt warm, burning with a fire that no heaven or hell could extinguish.

there were no more prayers left on her lips. no scripture to guide her. there was only him, harry, and the path he had carved into her.

and as they disappeared into the forest's dark embrace, the shack and its altar remained behind, empty and silent, its walls whispering of a god who had abandoned it long ago.

[madonnamadeofasphalt]

EA & Bioware honestly did an incredible job at killing any enthusiasm I had for a new Dragon Age. Fucking hell, man, I've played the first two games so much I could probably go through them with closed eyes and still pick all the right dialogue options to get My Exact Personally Canonized Plot. And the only reason I didn't do the same thing with DA:I is because it was made after EA completely gave up on optimizing their shit so the fucking thing takes up like a billion terabytes of disc space and takes 10 hours to download and install. I honestly think it's the best-written cRPG franchise to ever have a budget that doesn't involve a list of Kickstarter backers or getting an eccentric Estonian billionaire fixated on the project. And the gameplay is also there, I don't really care about that part.

Then they proceeded to fire all the talent that made me love those first three games, and scratch and restart the production twice, and be suspiciously cagey with any details or gameplay footage for a fucking decade, so my hype consistently went down and down. And yet I still managed to hold out some hope that somehow, by some miracle, it wouldn't fucking suck.

I kept that hope until the trailer dropped. You know the one. The one where we see a bearded Varric. This, I think, was the exact moment when I lost any desire to play fucking Veilguard.

Like, first of all, Varric being there at all is already an issue. Leave the man alone. His presence was already kinda forced in DA:I. And after DA:I and Tresspasser, his story couldn't be more finished if he got killed, eaten, shitted out, condemned to hell, redeemed by divine sacrifice, bathed for eternity in the everlasting light. There is no point to Varric anymore. Whatever arc they've given him in Veilguard, and I don't even give a shit enough to read the spoilers before writing this post, it has no business existing. Fuck you. The only reason he's there is because he's a recognizable IP, and when you're a certain kind of soulless corporate moron, you think there's nothing more important than putting a recognizable IP in whatever new bullshit you're trying to peddle. Maybe if you didn't fire every decent writer in your trash fucking company, you'd have someone to tell you about the importance of Ending The Fucking Story When The Story Fucking Ends.

But that's not even the core of the problem. Beard? they gave Varric a Beard? Varric I fucking hate everything that's even tangentially connected to dwarven culture with a passion which is why I've made a point to shave my beard all my life to spite anyone who gives a fuck about it Tethras? beard? you gave him a beard? He changed so much offscreen in the goddamn timeskip between these two games that he got a motherfucking berd? fucshhfdbeard? feadsgfsvarricafgfdh BEARD? yyousftoiuslyhhabevarricasgsfucningbeardandthivkimgosabedineditit?beard????

PS. (edit after finding out spoilers) I've gone to TV Tropes to read up on Varric's role in DATV after writing this (just in case I'm wrong and dumb, and there's actually a deeply compelling narrative reason for his presence), and, well, this shit is cheaper than I thought. And more importantly, just as I thought, there appears to be no justification for the beard beyond "adding a beard is a cliche way to show that a bunch of time has passed, and we didn't care enough to think this shit through". I'm fucking tired, man.

PPS. (edit after reading the rest of big spoilers) This is so much worse than I could even begin to suspect. This is worse than the final season of Game of Thrones. This is the final season of Game of Thrones if they straight-up fired GRRM, burned his notes and hired a showrunner who's only read a one-page summary of the first six seasons. This is fucking depressing, man. I'm genuinely fucking sad. So many subplots that were started over the course of these three games, that were clearly going somewhere, scrapped in favour of a simplistic good vs. evil story that would get rejected by fucking CD-Projekt in 2007 for being too basic. All because the artists who poured their hearts and souls into this bullshit franchise got thrown out like trash by its "owners". Morrigan's kid, the Well of Sorrows, all the implied complexities of Tevinter politics, the Crows, the Old Gods, Andraste. All went to shit. Death to capitalism.

[circeyoru]

Hello you amazeing writer!! I'm here and for starters, I just wana say HOW MUCH I LOVE YOUR WRITEING HDHDGDGDG

*Cough cough* Anyways...I am here to add a sprinkle of angst, cause it feeds my blood-lust /j

I remember reading a non-canon version of your "Unwanted soul" fic, where the reader gets redemed (like Sir Pantious) and at the end, they het back to hell while keeping some of the angelic fetures (like the wings) and Alastor ripped them off, ignoreing readers crys (sience now he wasn't under contract).

I was wondering...what if, after all that, reader woldn't actulay fully forget Alastor? Personaly, I really REALLY hate feeling any kind of pain, even if it's as small as a paper-cut, so what if reader gets so upset over all that that they ignore Alastor and just start feeling mode down than usual?

Other than that, I HOPE U HAVE AN AMAZIENG DAY/NIGHT!! HOPE I DIDN'T BOTHER MUCH :3

HAD A STRESSFUL DAY! BUT I'M HERE TO DESTRESS!! NO BOTHER AT ALL!! Okay, back to normal.

Go to MASTERLIST for the works. This ask is for {Unwanted Souls}. The specific mentioned ask is this, so give them a read before this.

The angst is back. Prepare yourself, really, I mean it...

Yes. Reader/you will and do shut down after the stunt Alastor pulls. It's similar to the state you were in before your suicide on Earth. But! Alastor's keeping an eye out for everything and anything you do so you don't get the chance to plan your third death.

Needless to say, you regret coming back because Alastor was and is beyond your control. If you had his soul, you'd destroy it. Alastor knows, that's why he's not offering it anymore. He did consider it, but the way you were unresponsive to him, he trashes the idea.

You don't talk to him, you don't listen to him, you don't look at him, and you don't acknowledge him. You know, any form of reaction and attention you give him, be it good or bad, he'll take it all with gratitude, and you're not giving him that pleasure. Not what you went through because of him.

Alastor does everything to coax you into looking at him again, he knows he can't threaten you because that's what you want. If he was angered enough to kill you or attempt to do so, you win and he'll be left with nothing. No more you. He can't let that happen. He tried returning with wounds or accidentally harming himself while making your meals. No reaction.

He asks you what he did wrong, what can he do for you to at least go back to the way you were. He didn't like how you were like a doll or a broken puppet. It was so agonizing to see you like this, even worse when the reason was him. You didn't even touch the anime and books he brought for you, not even the phone, or tablet, or laptop. Nothing.

After a long long while, you made up your mind. A plan brewed. One that will give you your eternal sleep.

"I want a feast with my favourites." You spoke so softly one day. Yet Alastor heard it loud and clear, he nodded, it has been forever since he heard your voice. The last was when you were begging him not to rip off your wings and halo that took you away from him. He got to work, saying he'll be back soon and asked for your patience.

Patience. You've given him too much. Your eyes burned with fury when his presence left the apartment and your home domain. You took your blank notebooks, summoning angelic weapons one after another around your bed. The angelic steel stacked up as did your exhaustion. Your eyesight blurry and your body heavy. Just a little more and you'll sleep. The feeling was so similar to when you embraced death the first time. Then you fell asleep. Forever.

When Alastor returned, he was terrified to find you surrounded by angelic steel. His mind didn't register that you were the one to summon them, like the time you saved him all those years ago. He only rushed forward to you, ignoring all the wounds on his legs as he walked pass the deadly material. He tried shaking you awake. You're eyes didn't open, your body was cold. Heartbeat? It was so weak.

He shouted for you to wake up. He pleaded and begged. He apologized. He was wrong. He was all wrong. It was all his fault. Just wake up. Please! He needs you! He can't live without you! You can't abandon him again! Not again! Please!

Before, in the canon of my story, you woke up because Lucifer told Alastor what to do. But here, he never knew about your relationship with Lucifer, nor would Lucifer tell him how to wake you up. Lucifer watched from afar as you slowly died from your powers that drained your very soul. Saving you wasn't an option, he said he'd respect your choice and won't question them. He's keeping it, he's your friend. When you were going on with your plan, you too realized that the only true friend you had was Lucifer.

You can't handle Alastor, you shouldn't have thought you could. You shouldn't have accepted Alastor.

You shouldn't have saved him that day.

Alastor deserves to suffer while you enter your eternal slumber.

[gloom-metal]

Sleeping Alone

(art by amy_hasnumbers on instagram. please check her art out!)

There is something in my house. A curse.

For the last couple of nights I have been woken up by the sound of scratching at my door. It could have been my cat, if not for the fact that she’s been sleeping with me all this time. Strangely, she doesn’t seem to hear the same noise that I do. It sounds like something is trying desperately to get in. Acting like a grown adult and attempting to ignore the problem and move on with my life isn’t working. I can’t sleep. It’s always there. Scratching. Wanting in.

The police didn’t help, obviously. There’s been no evidence of anyone breaking and entering, and the neighbours can’t corroborate my story. I tried getting footage, but it’s too dark for my phone and I cannot afford to have a proper camera system installed.

I talked with anyone who would listen, but it was pointless. I only ever got concerned looks. According to my therapist I’m just high strung- stressed from recent life events, highly emotional due to hormones. It’s understandable than I’m not holding it together at the moment. It’ll pass.

But the scratches kept coming every night. Stronger each time.

Then the nightmares started. At least, I think- hope- they’re nightmares. I keep seeing a shadow stretching from underneath the door. At first, it looks like the silhouette of a person, but then it turns into something resembling a gnarled tree branch. It starts extending from the door frame. It moves, growing, towards me- until it is over me. I try to scream, but my throat is tight and no sound dares escape. Every instinct urges me to run but I lay in my paralysis. As it gets closer, the back of my eyes feel as though they’re being clutched by claws of burning glass. And once it finally has me in its grasp-

I wake up. The sun is out. My cat is by my side, showing me the same look of concern I now see in everyone else, and I’m drenched in a cold sweat.

Tears start flowing. What do I do? Moving back with my parents is…. not an option, but I drained my resources getting this place and I have no one else to turn to. I am so alone.

______________________________________________________________

One late night, while trying to avoid sleep by losing myself into my work, I realised I’d forgotten to close my door... I finally caught a glimpse of it. Over the frame I got a peek at its- fingers? They looked skeletal, like bone. I couldn’t get a better look at it. As soon as it noticed me looking back, the thing darted back into the darkness.

I slept strangely well that night, and the next morning I was so confused. That awful thing has been trying to get into my room for who knows how long now, and I always assumed it wanted at best to watch me squirm, but most likely wanted me dead. Why else torment me this way? But last night, I was open. I was defenceless and unaware. Yet it fled. Why?

A while after, I built up the courage to confront it. The door was wide open and the light was on- a direct invitation to come in. I sat on my bed, staring into the familiar dark void beyond the frame. I would wait for as long as I could, I was getting used to not sleeping anyway.

But it did not show up, and I fell asleep. No nightmares, no paralysis. I tried again the next night, and then the one after that, and the next one still. Nothing. To be honest, I was furious. For as long as I have been living here, that thing has been plaguing me- not letting me get a wink of fucking sleep- and now that I want to see it face to face, it’s avoiding me? No. No no no no. You don’t get to fucking do that.

______________________________________________________________

One night- God knows which- I waited again. After what felt like an eternity, whatever sense of self-preservation I had left went out the window.

“Hey! You have been scratching at my door, plaguing my dreams, and making my nights hell since I moved. I’m here now, door’s open, and I am just… so exhausted. Whatever it is that you want, just fucking get it over with already.”

Silence.

I wanted to scream, to throw a pillow at the void, as if that could banish away the darkness, to do something other than sitting impotently on my bed.

And then I felt a cold chill go down my spine.

Slowly, a figure emerged from the dark. Step by step, the visage of my tormentor finally came into focus. I saw the silhouette of a woman, maybe around my age, though hard to tell. It wore a dirty white dress, a nightgown? Half of its face was obscured by long, greasy black hair covered in more dirt, as though it had just finished digging itself out of its grave.

But what I found most striking were its arms. I had thought that they were skeletal, but now that I could see them, they were actually gnarled branches. The bark and twig weaving together to form the crude shape of arms and hands. I could hear them cracking as it moved them, like they were breaking and reforming in order to animate; a broken facsimile of what might have been.

“What are you?”

Those words never left my mouth. I couldn’t talk, nor even move. My skin felt like it was being pierced by ice shards, and my vision became fuzzy and out of focus like an old TV or malfunctioning monitor. I could feel it staring at me intently as it approached, looking at me as though I was its most prised possession- or most hated enemy.

Suddenly I felt it, like a wave crashing upon the rocks. A feeling so deeply, achingly familiar, one that I have been fighting with my entire life, a feeling I had resigned myself to:

She was lonely.

The next thing I remember is waking up, and a migraine to end all migraines. Yet even while feeling like there was an ice pick shoved into my eye, I was more preoccupied with that wave of emotion I felt the night before. That gaping hole in my chest, that overwhelming feeling of want, longing, for someone or something to fill it.

It was hers… but it might as well have been mine too. Maybe it saw in me a kindred spirit of sorts, or perhaps it had just finally worked up the courage to interact with someone. Maybe, just maybe, all this time it only wanted company.

It is possible I might have completely lost the plot at this point, because even after the nightmares, the cold sweats, the migraine currently trying to pry apart my skull… I wanted to see her again.

Embarrassing, honestly. To think I wanted to comfort a… ghost? I’m still not sure if that’s what it- what she is. And yet, I really wanted to comfort her. To give her the company she craves, even though simply having her near me has me feeling as though I was about to die.

Despite this, I felt… compelled? Attracted? I don’t know- but whatever was pushing me forward with this, I knew I was doing it out of my own volition. I wanted to see this through.

______________________________________________________________

Yet another late night. I don’t remember the last time I went to sleep at a reasonable time, nor the last time I’ve managed to wake before noon. Thank God for being a freelancer I guess.

I was on my computer again, trying to distract myself from the pit of anxiety steadily growing inside my stomach. I left a note in my living room:

“I’m sorry if you can’t read or speak English, but this is the first time I have tried communicating with someone like you. I understand how you feel. I want to help. I’ll be staying up late again tonight, I’ll leave the door open for you. Feel free to come in. I’ll try not to react too badly this time.”

I wondered if she read it- if she could read it- if I offended her somehow, or if I was going to be able to keep my word and not pass out or whatever it is that makes me skip the night. Maybe this is a bad idea and I should start looking for a new place to stay, regardless of the cost.

I was deep in this thought spiral when I heard a gentle tapping from behind me. Cautiously, I turned around to see her again- peeking around the corner almost sheepishly, her gnarled fingers rhythmically tapping the door frame, and her one visible eye staring intently at me.

The chills came immediately, followed by the blur around my vision. My heart began racing so fast I could have sworn it was going to burst, but I was going to see this through. It took all my effort just to keep looking at her despite everything in my body screaming at me to look away, to run, to do literally anything that might take me to safety.

I don’t know how, but despite everything wanting to give out, I managed to fight through it. I untied the thick knot that had formed in my throat and managed to squeak out a single meek

“Hello”.

She didn’t reply. The silence hung over us like a bladed pendulum waiting to swing, broken finally by sound of cracking branches.

She was waving at me. Waving hello.

The relief I felt was enough to make me cry. I think I did, as she started to run away. Adrenaline took over, and despite that terrible paralysis which had kept me from moving in previous nights, I leapt from my chair to reach for her- to stop her from leaving. Every single alarm bell in my body was going off, howling at me to get away but they would not stop me. I managed to grab one of her arms in a plea to stay, which caused her to whip around to face me…

And I finally got to see her clearly.

Half of her face was gone. Where the rest should have been, her skull leered out at me- darkness pouring out from the gaps. What looked like ink was pouring out from her remaining eye.

“Oh,” I realised. “She was crying as well.”

I gripped her arm harder, pulled her in and… hugged her. The biggest hug I could muster. God, it was like hugging an ice statue, I could already feel my arms going numb.

“I’m here now. You’re not alone anymore. You’re not alone.”

I heard a muffled, hollow sob coming from where her face met my chest, and I could feel it echoing throughout the house. Maybe I felt her relax, she wasn’t as cold anymore. We could have hugged for minutes or hours, I don’t know, and I didn’t care. I could have held her until the world ended.

I managed to pull myself away for a bit, just so I could look at her more clearly. Through her torn visage and the ink pouring from her eyes, she seemed so relieved and… thankful. I could have been seeing things again, but I swear that she was smiling.

And it was beautiful.

I guided her to my bed and offered her to sit while I went back to my desk. I tried talking to her; asked her about her name, how long she’s been here, and so on. She never answered. I figured she wasn’t able to talk, but that was okay.

It was around this time that I remembered that my body was still in crisis, and all of a sudden I felt the room start to spin uncontrollably.

The next morning I awoke to my cat licking my face. I was so embarrassed that I had given out on her like this again, and had just started berating myself for it when I realised that… I had been tucked into bed. Tears of joy started pouring down my face, I don’t think I have ever felt happier in my life. It felt as though a massive weight had been lifted from my shoulders, or rather, that the gaping hole I had been living with for all of my life had just been filled.

I stayed in bed for a while longer, laughing and crying until I was sore.

______________________________________________________________

There is something in my house. For the longest time I thought it was a curse- but in truth, she is the best thing that has ever happened to me.

We continued trying to talk, but often it has just been the two of us enjoying the silence of the night and our company together. I had to let her know that I do have a life during the day, and I wouldn’t be able to keep her company every night, but I would be here when I could.

She seemed grateful, and truth be told, so was I. You could say I have finally lost my mind, seeking company in the dead and otherworldly. But to me she is just another person, one who cares for me, and who I care for in turn. I still hug her when I can, and though she is still cold to the touch, in her I felt the warmest love. I hope that mine warms her in turn.

[xx3bvvx]

Congrats to me, I remembered the idea. it's not an idea, but anyway

Ex: prepare your tissues, people, you've been warned.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

"Ha... ha... ha..."

Lee Soo Hyuk panted, wiping the blood from his head. A deep gash from fighting the monster had slowed him down. He wiped the blood from his eyes and surveyed the scene before him. Corpses littered the ground—his team members, who had perished fighting the monster that Kim Rok Soo had predicted would appear. The monster looked terrifying, even to him, but as the team leader, he maintained the facade of a strong and reliable leader.

He glanced at the bodies, many of which were mangled beyond recognition. Some were in better shape if missing limbs and deep cuts could be considered "better." The faces of the remaining team members were etched with despair, sorrow, and fear. Clutching the handle of his sword, he charged toward the monster and attacked with a powerful <slash>, but it barely left a mark. Frustration and guilt welled up within him. If only he were stronger, his team might still be alive. Grinding his teeth, he launched another attack, but the monster ignored him and moved in a different direction.

"What the hell...?"

His eyes followed the monster until he realized where it was headed. His pupils dilated in horror. Without thinking, he sprinted toward Kim Rok Soo, desperately trying to communicate through the broken walkie-talkie.

"Damn it! Fuck! KIM ROK SOO! WATCH OUT!" he cursed and yelled, his voice rising in pitch. But Kim Rok Soo didn’t notice until it was too late. Lee Soo Hyuk charged forward, throwing himself in front of Rok Soo and pushing him out of the way.

"Cough... ah."

Lee Soo Hyuk looked down at the claws, piercing his stomach and the blood covering his hands. He lifted his head to meet Rok Soo's eyes and managed a contented smile, thinking, "Ah... at least this punk is alive. I'm glad."

Kim Rok Soo's eyes welled up as he looked at Lee Soo Hyuk, who lay before him, struggling for breath. Lee Soo Hyuk's face was pale, yet his eyes burned with determination.

Lee Soo Hyuk saw Rok Soo's expression—full of fear and sorrow, his hands trembling as he held him. He called out to him, his voice weak but insistent

"Kim Rok Soo, I... I." He called with a firm voice, or that was what he wanted, but it was low, weak whispered.

"Will you shut your trap?" Kim Rok Soo snapped, his voice shaking as he tried to hold back tears.

Lee Soo Hyuk chuckled softly, a sound that quickly turned into a wet cough. "Shut my what? Well, looks like I’ll be shutting up for all eternity in a moment," Lee Soo Hyuk replied with a faint, bitter smile.

"...Please don’t speak nonsense either," Kim Rok Soo pleaded, his heart aching.

"I’ll say what I want to say. Kim Rok Soo, hey Rok Soo."

"... What is it?" Kim Rok Soo's voice was barely a whisper, his eyes locked onto his friend's hyung.

"I leave it to you. Got it?" Lee Soo Hyuk's eyes bore into Kim Rok Soo's with a mixture of trust and desperation.

"...I thought you told me to be a slacker?" Kim Rok Soo's voice cracked, trying to lighten the moment.

"Hey, have you ever seen anything in the world go the way you want it to go? You, cough!" Lee Soo Hyuk's body convulsed as he coughed, blood staining his lips. "Anyway...I, I leave it to you, Rok Soo. Hey Rok Soo. Take care of things for me."

As darkness edged into his vision, Lee Soo Hyuk's last thought was of hope. He trusted Kim Rok Soo completely. He had to believe that his dongsaeng would carry on, that he would honour this final request. With one last faint smile, Lee Soo Hyuk let go, his mind filled with the image of a better future that Kim Rok Soo would help create. His eyes closed, and he found peace in that belief as his world went dark.

[hibou088]

Rabia al-Adawiyya al-Qaysiyya

Rabia al-Adawiyya al-Qaysiyya (Arabic: رابعة العدوية القيسية‎) or simply Rabia Basri (713/717–801) was a Muslim mystic and poet who lived in Basra. She is a major figure in Sufism.

She maintained a strict celibacy, something surprising in Islam, which holds marriage as a model and rejects monasticism. She rejected numerous marriage proposals, wanting to give herself only to God, her Beloved.

Several accounts describe miracles : the marvelous appearance of food for her guests, light emanating from her body, allowing them to do without a lamp… Legendary as they may be, these stories clearly demonstrate Rabia's status as a saint and friend of God (waliyya).

From what little is known of this work, she seems to have primarily celebrated the love (maḥabba) and intimacy ('uns) of God, and the poems that remain make her one of the first advocates of divine love.

Pierre Lory speaks of this as a "doctrine of integral love," an attachment to God alone—which undoubtedly explains why she rejected marriage and motherhood. She also said : "Marriage is necessary for those who can choose. As for me, I have no choice in my life. I belong to my Lord and in the shadow of His commandments; my person has no value." Her love for God is absolute; there is no room for the love of anything else, and the world has no importance in her eyes. In spring, she would even close the windows without paying the slightest attention to the new flowers, to become totally absorbed in contemplating the Creator of these flowers and of spring.

She seeks to love God solely for Himself, beyond all fear or expectation, beyond all fear of hell or desire for paradise. Thus, in this famous saying, she declares the ardor of God's selfless love : "God, (…) if it is for fear of hell that I serve You, condemn me to burn in its fire, and if it is for the hope of reaching paradise, forbid me access; but if it is for You alone that I serve, do not deny me the contemplation of Your face." And in an equally famous statement, reported in the 14th century by Aflaki, she answers someone who asks her where she is going, holding a lit torch in one hand and a bucket filled with water in the other: "I am going to heaven, to cast fire on paradise and water on hell, so that both may disappear and men may look to God without hope or fear."

She also mocked hopes of pleasure with celestial spouses, the delights of God's presence being, in her eyes, infinitely superior. In her eyes, the promises of "houris and castles" in Paradise are only veils masking the eternal divine beauty : "When He makes houris and Paradise shimmer in your mind, be sure that He keeps you far from Himself."

In this sense, she seems to be the first Sufi to speak of a jealous God. Orthodoxy already knew this aspect of the Divine, but saw it only as a prohibition against worshipping anything other than Him. Rabia goes further. She thus declares in one statement : "I have ceased to exist and I have left my own person. I have become one with God and am completely His." This reflects Rabia's meditation on the fact that divine love precedes human love, as the Quranic verse states : "God will soon bring forth men; He will love them, and they too will love Him." This verse was subsequently taken up by Sufis of later generations as proof of the validity of their theories on mutual love between God and His creatures.

Here is another example of a poem:

"May You be sweet to me, while life is bitter! / May You be satisfied with me, / While men are furious (against me). / The precipice that separates me from You, may it be bridged! / Everything would be bearable for me, if You would deign to love me! (Yes). / All that exists here below is but dust upon dust." (Translation Salih Khlifa).

[beet-feet]

A sad acrostic poem I wrote from Aziraphale to Crowley

I Forgive You

I watched all hope vanish from your golden eyes

Fumbling, you laid your heart bare before a selfish angel

Our side crumbled as I dismissed your declaration of love

Running away with you was all I wanted

Giving you up has left me shattered beyond repair

I can still feel your kiss burning through me

Vicious words of absolution tumbled from my lips

Eternal minutes tick by in this hell I've created for myself

You are worthy of love, but I am not worthy of yours

On my own, I am hollow and broken

Under a canopy in the rain, I will meet you when I return

[pigeontheoneandonly]

exit criteria

ETA: Now with AO3 link! Link

For once, I was actually feeling writerly, so I did a little time loop fic tonight about the run to the beam at the end of ME3:

The mortar struck the tank, flipped it, and in one single motion smeared Kaidan and Garrus into paste.

Shock took Shepard first, and the bullet took her second.

* * *

This time, Shepard threw her arm out and kept Kaidan from running ahead.  So the bullet got him instead.

* * *

She had figured out far more complex problems than this, many times over.  Failing twice was annoying.  A blemish on her record, even if nobody else would ever know.  So Shepard took half a beat before charging down the London rubble once again, used it to draw her own heavy weapon, and simply blasted the tank out of the way.

Garrus spared a moment none of them had to toss her a confused glance.  Her answering smirk had just reached peak smugness when the airborne reaper unit, alerted by the explosion, sighted and fired, briefly illuminating each of their three outlines in its plasma beam before they atomized.

* * *

Her squad balked at running down the right side of the field when the center was clearly optimal.  But they’d followed her to hell, and there was no time to argue.

Kaidan didn’t say I told you so when the banshee lifted him by his hair to her fetid mouth.  He was too preoccupied with screaming, suddenly cut off.

* * *

Think, Shepard.  She stared across the battlefield.  Twenty seconds, then a minute, then five—an eternity in these conditions.  The profligate waste didn’t concern her.  Clearly, she’d have as many attempts as necessary to get this right.

(You hope, whispered a poisonous thought.  You assume.  You need.)

Beyond the beam that led to the Citadel, Harbinger crouched.

“I need to go further back,” she said aloud, abrupt, just before the reaper’s cherry red beam shot out through the dark with unerring precision.

* * *

“I’m sorry,” Hackett told her, on the med evac shuttle more than a day after she left Garrus and Liara dead under the tank.  “The Crucible firing disabled most of the fleet, but stopped short of outright destroying it.  Cerberus put too much reaper technology into the Normandy’s redesign.  We found no survivors.”

* * *

“I’m sorry,” Shepard said, as Kaidan broke their goodbye kiss, eyes wide.  A hypodermic needle was small but still noticeable when it pricked the delicate skin of the neck.  “I need you to live.”

Her arms caught him as he folded up, gentle.  Forgive me. 

A bombed-out building had few good or secure hiding spots the size of an adult human male.  Someone found him and brought him back to the Normandy.  To the impromptu field hospital.  To the personal care of an inexperienced and self-trained civilian medic whose misdiagnosis led to organ failure.

After the fourth attempt, Shepard abandoned the approach in exasperation.

* * *

Her squad charged down the left side.  Killing a brute wasn’t unprecedented at this point in the war, but doing so with barely twenty feet of maneuvering room proved impossible.  She should know.  She tried ten times.

* * *

Shepard sat down at the top of hill, wrapping her arms around her knees and staring down the beam with real anger.

“Shouldn’t we charge?” Kaidan asked.

“You’d think so,” she grumbled.

* * *

The tank flipped.

The tank flipped.

The tank flipped.

The tank flipped—

* * *

Once, she went to the hill alone and screamed with every last ounce of frustration in her body.  “What do you want from me?!”

Harbinger did not deign to reply.  It did not even deign to slap her aside itself.  Instead, it left her to be overrun, eventually, by various husks.

* * *

It merited further consideration, however: What did Harbinger (or the universe, or fate, or or or) want from her? 

Her eyes narrowed over the London apocalypse.  The galaxy can burn.  There is no version of this mission where I let Kaidan die. 

* * *

I won’t, she said, as a marauder broke through his armor.

I won’t, she said, while Kaidan flew thirty feet into the air and hit the ground with terrible finality.

I won’t, she said, as the tank flipped over him.

* * *

Kaidan found her in starboard observation, Earth growing ever larger in the port.  Her hand pushed against the glass as if she could, by force, prevent it coming any closer.

She knew his footsteps.  She knew the way the air stirred around his shape, the faint rustle of his clothes and the even fainter whiff of soap.  Every line, tick, and habit.

Her shoulders hunched.

He asked her what was wrong, because he knew her, too, every mood and every flinch.

So Shepard did something she’d never done before, in any iteration: she told him.

It took a bit of time, and then they were both quiet for a long while.  Kaidan held her curled in his arms.  His breath in her hair.  Her fingers digging into his forearm. 

“I need you to do something for me,” he said, at last, sounding as tired as she felt.

Shepard knew Kaidan.  Her grip tightens another fraction.  “Don’t you dare say it.”

Quietly, inexorably, gently.  “You need to let me go.”

The only answer she could bear was to shake her head, her throat stopped up.

* * *

Shepard never made that mistake again.  But yet.

He kissed her in London, his hand lingering, cupped around her cheek.  You need to let me go.

His gloved hand scooped up hers, just for a few paces, a stolen moment on a quiet street between packs of roaming reaper forces on their way to the beam, an ounce of warmth amid terror and despair.  You need to let me go.

His breath woofed out, relief and new tension all at once, as they crested the hill and stared down at the frighteningly open terrain teeming with endless enemies, glowing with gunfire, the last stand, the last fight.  You need to let me go.

* * *

She sat beside the tank a long while.  Kaidan, his meat, was somewhere under it.  In point of fact, this was the longest she’d ever lasted, any time she’d paused during the run to the beam.  Nothing cared about her.  Not here in the shadow of a ruined vehicle, no gun drawn, no fight left in the lines of her body.  They all saw instinctively that she was no true threat.

There wasn’t a name for this sort of grief.  How could anyone grieve a person who was dead thirty or forty or a hundred times over?  He’d been dead the first time the mortar struck the tank and he was still dead now and there was absolutely nothing, nothing, to be done about it. 

After a time, other reapers landed, legions of them making mountains on the horizon with their long, raised thoraxes.  Systemically, they scoured London clean in a shower of particle beams and sonorous booms. 

Shepard fell asleep not long after dawn and died without knowing it.

* * *

Kaidan tore his gaze away from the beam when he felt the pressure of Shepard looking at him.  He cocked his head.  “What are you doing?”

She took him in.  Not long, not nearly long enough, but she took what she could get of him, always.  Almost too quiet to hear, she sighed out, “Letting go.”

His brow creased.  Then Garrus yelled, as the first of the enemy took notice of them, and they were flying down the field, Shepard chasing Kaidan chasing Garrus.

The mortar arced downward. 

The tank flipped up into the air.

Shepard ran.  The bullet whizzed past her shoulder, where she stood not a fraction of a second earlier. 

The airborne reaper, passing overhead, took note of the human, and fired a plasma beam.  The angle was not optimal.  Even perfect machines bow to physics.

The beam flashed by her at near light-speed, hot enough to scorch her cheek.

It met the tank in the midair. 

The tank glowed, and then exploded, knocking Kaidan and Garrus to the ground under a hot shrapnel rain. 

The stab in her chest never lost its edge, no matter how many dozens of times he died.  But her step didn’t falter.  Her arms pumped, her legs flying, moving so fast, in fact, that the tears leaking out of her eyes flowed back into her hair—

Until, as she flashed by the tank’s remains, something new:

Kaidan sat up. 

[xsapphirescrollsx]

Dominion

Written: Oct 17 2023

Just a lil story I wrote today. I haven't written in some time. I hope you enjoy it! I wrote this story to this song ^.^

@titty-teetee <3

The best lie ever told about them was that the sun kills. But that falsity never really affected your life, mostly. You moved through levels of society like you ruled the night, and told the sun when to rise. Your mother called you aloof, a lazy rich girl- that is if anybody outside your kinship actually knew only you pretended poverty. You didn’t need to wear a disguise like the rest of them. There was a permissive, creeping, effortless prowling that came to you naturally. You wanted to fit in, but that was like a cat feigning to be a mouse and you never outgrew that proclivity. 

And it was this attitude that made you catch hell from your sister and father when you showed up late. The building was in the shitties part of town. Barrels burned with stank garbage for warmth as you stepped out of the alley opposite. Forty floors of culture they said. Consequently hidden by poor souls soothing and numbing their bashed spirits the best they knew how, drugs. They weren’t even worth eating.

Thin black sling backs lightly tapped as you walked across the street, onto the cement sidewalk and toward the farthest left front door. Puffs of snow gathered in the corners of the brick pocket near the door. You glanced again and on closer inspection a body lay there, away from the fires out front but you kept walking.

Past the dirt covered, shabby peeling wallpaper and rusted gates separating the inside of the building from the outside grunge. You were buzzed in and immediately approached by Mer’gene, a friend, well one of the people in this world who has known you the longest besides your mother.

“You are not dressed appropriately,” she hissed and stared at the thin black shawl you wore.

Your eyes rolled from her prim expression to the crowd in the foyer that was beginning to thicken like coagulating platelets. 

“It’s busy tonight,” you half said to her, but more to yourself.

Mer’gene glanced that way, “Yes, they want to pick who’s going to be President of the United States tonight. All the Elders are here….like your forefather.”

At the mention of Charlemagne you began to peel off the shawl and handed it to Mer’gene. “Well we can’t let him get in the way of a little fun.”

Passing through the foyer you followed the flow of people dressed in their best. Opulent comes to mind once you set eyes on the familiar market. What should have been a lobby for an apartment building was lined with shops, stacked on top of other shops. Bright lighting from eternal fire flames atop of metal poles lit your way. The direct opposite of what was being the brick outside, here, inside was spotless, clean and smelled of incense. 

You window shopped for the most part, just listening to Mer’gene talk about everybody and nothing at the same time as you imagined owning a five thousand year old human leather purse. A normal Wednesday night.

A pop and flash came from somewhere on the fourth floor shops. You ignored it at first and chalked it up to a grieving kin who decided to self immolation. A scream, shrieked inhumanly into the air. All stopped and turned toward the sound. It was an alarm. It was a call to evacuate and didn’t have to be told twice. 

Once again you were ushered out with the crowd toward an exit that emptied out into an alley. Bright daybreak rose over the galvanized fence to the east in the grimy alley. Beyond it police cars lined the street, a smile began to crease your lips. A bushy haired man in a sweater and his badge clipped on his hip near his gun stood. 

There he was.

Outside on the streets in this location had you looking wholly out of place. But it didn’t stop you from approaching the cops. Innocently you gazed around, swayed in your step, maybe applied phony little hiccups. That caught his attention, god you were great at pretending weakness. 

“Ma’am, what made you think you could cross that yellow tape?” the man pointed back behind you but choosing not to look you stared at him forcing your eyes to dilate in the morning light. “Are you on somethin’?” he questioned again. 

You stepped forward, attempted to speak and promptly fainted. 

“Shit,” you heard him say as he caught your waist. 

“You got that one?” said another cop's voice. “She looks thick, might hurt your back.”

You made note of that remark and silently vowed to see what he tasted like - later.

“No I got her. She’s probably a rich asshole hopped up on something. I’ll take her back to the SUV.”

The man dragged you the best he could around the waist as you completely let yourself dead weigh him. One car, four cars, and finally around the corner away from the crime scene you heard the door open as he still struggled with your body. So you decided to start slurring your words and reacting to be held by a ‘stranger’.

“Let me go you fuckin’ bastard,” you spit out, wiped your mouth and struggled to stand. “You took me out here! You said we would have a great time…” you began to cry a bit to make it look convincing. 

The cop pushed you into the back seat and slammed the door. You leaned against the door and watched him walk around the front. His head pivoted while his eyes seemed to look for people who might be watching. You shut your eyes as he opened the door and got in the back seat with you. 

You breathed lightly as if you were sleeping.

“Did you get your self drugged?” he asked quietly. 

Your non beating heart would've jumped if it was alive at the insinuation. 

You felt him move closer and move his arm over the back of the seat. His other hand was on your knee.

Suddenly he was closer to your face, your ear. “Hey. Hey are you awake?” he whispered. His hand began to caress up your thigh.

A dirty cop! You felt yourself begin to get wet. 

“You’re in safe hands sweetheart,” his lips murmured on your cheek. He moved his hand from your thigh. He grabbed your wrist and placed your hand on the hard chub underneath his jeans. 

“How’s that feel?” He forced your hand to continue to rub him. “Slutty little bitch on the streets, huh?” he croaked.

Your teeth pricked the inside of your cheek. Fuck it, you couldn’t hold out any more.

“It feels like I need to make you mine,” you opened your eyes and stared back at him completely lucid. Your lips drew back over the sharp canines in a lovely, perfect smile.

----

....to be continued?

[notguccienoughforthis]

Hey not to be a raving lunatic on main but like imagine pledging eternal fealty to a divine warlord - arguably a brilliant tactician, scholar and sorcerer; imagine deciding to bend the knee to a living legend - the golden lion of the battlefield come again, the conqueror of the very stars themselves!! Imagine thinking you would never lose, would unite the shattered lands under the banner of the Redmane Knights, imagine the glory so tangible, so palpable you could almost reach out and touch it only for it to crumble and rot before your very eyes.

How the Knights ever carried on after the Battle of Aeonia is beyond me. The idea of the Redmane Knights solemnly burning away their crests, deciding to never go back home but instead to act as a bulwark for the spreading ruin is a testament to their unbreakable will. They took in devastation and unimaginable loss and instead of losing their minds they found new purpose.

They looked around at their homeland turned into a nightmare and said “This fate will not befall the rest of the world”. They threw themselves at their newfound task despite the apparent futility of it all. Hell, they faced down imminent destruction - they saw their God become a raving, battle maddened lunatic and said “Lord we will grant you an honorable death”.

The Battle of Aeonia isn’t just a tale of loss. It’s also a parable of hope, of the enduring will of the Redmane Lions in the face of incomprehensible destruction.

[dark-elf-writes]

Jareth watching his boyfriend choke a goddess to death with her own poison

(Is this an su where Percy ascends? Are we getting god Percy or is he gonna stop himself?)

It had ached to know Perseus had turned down immortality.

It wasn’t a surprise. His little hero would chafe under the weight of millennia, would mourn each and every person he had ever known with that still mortal heard of his that could so easily lead him to ruin. Still, it had ached to know Percy would burn bright and quick, leaving Jareth to mourn him for the rest of time.

(And he would mourn. He was already mourning if he was being fully honest with himself. That damned gray streak had faded while Percy was gone, taken, stolen from him, but Jareth could see it still. Could see the cruelty of time weighing heavily on his mortal lover as heavy as the sky had once been.

Percy would be beautiful, even bent with age.

And still Jareth mourned.)

“I’m nineteen,” Percy had told him like it held all the answers in the world, knowing Percy it did at least in his mind. “If I’m going to be frozen in time forever I’d like to not get carded for all of eternity.”

“You don’t even like alcohol,” Jareth pointed out, choosing not to mention that gods could change their appearances as they pleased. He knew the visual aspect wasn’t really the point. His Percy wanted to live before he ascended.

Percy narrowed those sea glass eyes at him, telling him that the alcohol certainly hadn’t been the point either. Then his expression smoothed as he pressed against Jareth’s side. “Besides, if anyone is going to make me a god I don’t want it to be Zeus. It just sounds so…” He scrunched his nose, “possessive? I guess? Like he would have a claim over me as more than a king. I don’t want that. If I decide I want immortality I would ask you or dad.”

Jareth forgot how to breathe, forgot anything but the little body in his arms tossing out the possibility of eternity like it was nothing. No, that wasn’t fair. Percy knew the weight of his words. Knew what Jareth would give to keep him at his side for the rest of time. Knew that Jareth would respect his right to choose, more than any other deity.

At the time he had hummed, pressing his lips to Percy’s hair and breathing him in. Hoping beyond hope that perhaps he would not need to mourn after all.

He was reminded, violently, of that conversation now. As Percy wrenched control of Akhlys’ own domain from her, a being nearly as old and all encompassing as Jareth himself, and used it to drown her.

It shouldn’t be possible. Not for a mortal. Barely even for a god.

Yet there stood Perseus with his face twisted in cold, ancient fury, more beautiful than Jareth had ever seen him. A beacon of light and power in this darkest hell.

A beacon.

Jareth was moving, pushing past the horrified daughter of Athena, even as he heard the shattering of something infinitely more fragile than glass. Was cupping Percy’s cheek and drawing his face away from the goddess drowning on dry land to look at him instead.

“Not here,” Jareth pleaded, hearing the terror and awe in his own voice. “Perseus, not here. You will draw the eyes of things far older and more terrible than Misery if you ascend here.”

Those green eyes he loved, bright with power, blinked. Slowly. So slowly. An immortal’s sluggishness. Jareth had to choke back a scream of frustration. Not here. Not now. Already he could feel eyes, ancient and full of malice, turning to them. His and Akhlys’ magic wouldn’t be enough to hide them from those eyes. From the eyes of creation and destruction itself. Around them the pit stirred. The ancient god waking.

Then the glow under Jareth’s fingers died, and Percy shook his head in a sharp quick motion like he was trying to rattle something loose… or rattle it back in place. Like mortality was one of those trick boxes the Son of Hephaestus made when his hands were left idle.

A temporary fix. One that only Perseus Jackson could manage.

Jareth sagged as he felt those ancient eyes turn from them.

“After this,” He swore, “once we are free of this place I will change you myself. Hold your ascension until then, my love.”

Percy blinked a few times in rapid succession. It soothed some of Jareth’s remaining terror. “After the war. We beat Gaea, and I’m yours.”

Jareth didn’t think Percy would last so long, but he nodded. If anyone could, it would be him.

[halcy0ng1rl]

a theatre in greenville ⋆⭒˚.⋆

Synopsis: Her eyes gently met the shaken crowd before she pointed to the skylight, lit by the effervescent moon and in the wake of their fear, offered a soothing glint of reassurance: “No darkness is truly beyond light,” And then Mikaela Reid was gone.

a rewrite of Sable's game lore <3

w/c: 13k

Tags: wlw, pre-canon, hurt/not really any comfort, small town blues, anything you'd expect from a rewrite of her story lol.

♬⋆.˚ Playlist ♬⋆.˚

⋆˚࿔ AO3 Link ⋆˚࿔

⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆

And you might never come back home, and I may never sleep at night

But God, I just hope you're doing fine out there, I just pray that you're alright

-A House In Nebraska, Ethel Cain 

-✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧-

Part One: Latibulation  

October 31st, 2012, Greenville 

“Who here believes in love? I mean, really believes in love?” 

The witch stared at the audience, her eyes burning the question into the tiny gathering from the moonstone’s stage. Her hands gripped the mic, ink-stained fingernails catching the light of a few candles burning off to the side. 

A few scintillas of affirmation were whispered among the crowd, but there was also a deafening silence; she had them enthralled. 

Her voice, so rich with intrigue and some form of haughty secrecy, kept her one step ahead of the crowd but, unbeknownst to them, also held them spellbound. 

She took in the response with a willowy nod of the head, curls glinting in the amber light. 

“Love makes us do crazy things, doesn’t it?” 

The audience furled inward. Some laughed nervously. 

“Some would turn their back on family for love. Some would give up wealth and power for love. Some would even go to hell and back for love. But there are places in the cosmos far worse than hell; places where death is just the beginning, and you could lose your soul.

Would you go to such a place to bring back the one you love?”

The story took on a life of its own, writhing and slithering around the throats of the captive audience as she told it. Death, darkness, eternity, and devotion took on new meaning when defined in her floral yet macabre wit, dancing around the room like ghastly spirits. 

Her eyes gently met the shaken crowd before she pointed to the skylight, lit by the effervescent moon and in the wake of their fear, offered a soothing glint of reassurance: 

“No darkness is truly beyond light,” 

And then Mikaela Reid was gone. 

Fog stood where she had been, the sound of her gasp and the clatter of the stool she once sat upon falling to the floor stunning the crowd into complete silence. 

But then, out of the blue, a scream–

– heads turned, the assiduous expressions of the crowd meeting the horrified and frozen countenance of Sable Ward, the source of the seemingly overkill outcry; with her hand out, reaching for something that was no longer there. 

Clapping ensued, the hovering and confused crowd choosing to believe that what they had witnessed was a masterful stunt. But Sable, through her wrenching feelings of distress and heart-clutching, sudden guilt, knew that wasn’t the case.

Her chest heaved up and down, her corset like a strait-jacket keeping her bound. It was her fault– it had to be. Sable had told her about The Unknown. She must have spoken of it, been taken by it like the tales said anyone dumb enough to would be. Quick , she thought, rehashing the story Mikaela had spun and kicking herself for forgetting the details among the miscellaneous allure of her freckles and tattoos and eyes under the spotlight, trying to remember if at any point she had tried to define the elusive creature through the haze of her hyperventilation. 

Fervour gnashed at her like it had teeth as she pushed away from the crowd, angry that they didn’t get it– that didn’t know the kind of world they really lived in– and searched the cafe for wherever Mikaela could be hiding. Biting her lip, worrying herself so close to tears, she grew embarrassed. When Mikaela didn’t turn up anywhere, she grew bitter, lashing out at people, inciting them to move and look for her while clenching her nails into her sweaty palms. 

“She’s not anywhere! Why are you just standing there?!” 

A couple tried to calm her down, but Sable found herself alone in her car before anyone could get in another word. 

-✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧-

A day passed, and nobody had seen Mikaela. 

The following, Sable filed a missing persons report to the police department, and a city-wide search was conducted for her and her roommate, Julian, with no results. Knowing officers had combed through Mikaela’s belongings made Sable’s stomach rise with unease— the journal pages, the scrapped stories— what would they make of it? Would they frame her as a gone-mad witch? 

Sable’s interrogation had been filled with leering looks and misjudgment of her character (rumours that the employees of The Moonstone were demonic cultists and general fear for their Wiccan practices were commonplace among the older residents of Greenville) and ended up being a waste of time. Nobody knew anything. Mikaela’s belongings were returned, and her apartment was left under her mother's name and billing address. 

Sable’s anger turned to the police, but slowly back to herself. 

It’s not likely they’d understand, they still think every problem can be solved by a man with a gun and badge. They don’t know what we know. I let this happen. It’s my fault. 

Losing Mikaela was like losing the sun. 

She spent the first week hanging missing posters around every street in town, asking cryptic questions, and conducting nervous shifts at The Moonstone with her eye trained on the door, waiting for the comforting jingle of Mikaela’s bracelets to signal her arrival back home (more than once she had spilled a cup of coffee handing it to a customer in her stupor),

But she never came. 

While waiting for her coffee at The Moonstone, she overheard two girls talking. 

“Didn’t her roommate go missing too? I wouldn’t be surprised if they just, like, skipped town. Not much to do here anymore, anyway.” 

“It feels like people go missing every day around here…” 

Sable had considered the idea herself, but started to absently scratch at her wrists in frustration; where did they get off saying things like that? Mikaela would never do that to her. She grabbed her coffee and stormed out, suddenly wracked with nausea, imagining them happy somewhere away from the dreary suburbia of Greenville. 

It made sense to the townspeople. In some ways, it made sense to Sable, too. 

The thought of her alive, in this world, hurt her more than the thought of her stuck in a ditch somewhere. Betrayal gnawed at the fraying edges of her heart and manifested itself in the furrow of her brow. The more she imagined it, the more she believed it, despite the voice of reason in the back of her mind telling her it was false. She threw her own impromptu pity party all the way home, ending with visions of palm trees and fast cars and bedsheets. 

For all the world, it couldn’t be true, and if it was, at least she got what she wanted. Sable soothed herself by thinking this way. Would it matter so much, she began, if it were me and her leaving everyone else behind and disappearing without a trace? 

She wanted to tell Mikaela she was sorry for thinking about her so lowly. 

Missing posters fluttered absently on her desk in the open wind, rustling like they were trying to tell her something. 

But Sable wasn’t yet inclined to listen. 

-✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧-

After a few days of trying to keep it together, waiting for her return, Sable fell apart. 

On Remembrance Day, Mrs.Reid sent her an unexpected phone call. Lost in her attic, drowning in hapless, humiliating tears, Sable shakily accepted the call, clearing her desiccated throat. 

“Hello?” 

“Hey, honey. I wanted to make sure you’ve been doing alright, it’s been– I don’t even know where to begin.” 

Guilt washed over Sable, the cracked and hopelessly gentle tone of Mrs.Reid’s voice sending her down a spiral of self-loathing: she hadn’t even thought of how her mother may have felt. Her cheek was hard against the dusty wood of the attic, wet with selfish tears, all while she should have been offering comfort to the person who needed it the most. 

“Oh, I’m doing alright, Mrs.Reid, please don’t worry about me–” 

Despite her pleas, Mikaela’s mother continued to prod. “Nonsense, oh, god, I can’t even begin to imagine how hard this has been for you. For me, it’s just– god, I don’t know where to begin. Have you been taking care of yourself?” 

“I’m okay, really, you don’t have to worry– how are you ?” She wanted to hang up the phone, every word spoken bearing the pain of a stab to her heart. She wasn’t ready for this. But a pressing sense of obligation kept her going. 

The conversation was painful and long, and when Sable finally hung up, she didn’t even have enough energy to sob her woes away. She simply closed her eyes and fell asleep in her makeup and day clothes in the drafty attic, surrounded by the tumultuous crack of wind whistling through the barren trees outside. 

Sleep became an often unwonted and stressful task. She could never drift away without her heart-shaped necklace around her throat, or seldom a chunk of amethyst and rose quartz charging by her head on a slab of selenite. Rather than replenish the vitality she so desperately needed, horrible nightmares robbed her of any chance for proper rest, visiting her in disjointed bursts, with Mikaela the epicentre of every one.  

One solitary night, she was wandering in a dark forest, collecting the picked-over bones of a long-dead deer. She tried, over and over again, to put the deer back together with nothing but mud and twine, but the periosteum crumbled at her touch until all she was left with was a pile of dust and a pair of muddy knees, awakening with the realization that she was truly trying to piece together the remains of her best friend. 

In another, she was secure in her arms, the smell of vanilla on her freckled skin so tangible that the dream aspect of it all nearly slipped Sable’s lucid mind. Rain pattered on the window outside, as thick and sleepy as clusters of nightshade hitting brush, but through the haze, Sable understood the woman whose breast she lay her cheek upon was not Mikaela. She left the embrace only to find herself staring at the creature’s true form, so labyrinthine she could not describe it. A bony finger beckoned her back with sweet promises of peace found in martyrdom, the cold choke of death startling her awake. 

The night, once her closest confidant, became her nemesis.

 In the shadows she once adored lay figures she began to curse for taking Mikaela from her. She would lie awake often and think over warm memories that only ever made her ache: Mikaela making her a latte in her favourite mug. Mikaela helping her dye her hair. Mikaela making her laugh so hard that their stomachs hurt. Mikaela and her, tangled in her bed under the moon, haloed by the glow of strung-up fairy lights, holding her when it all got too loud. 

The only one who listened, taken from her like that . 

She wanted to be strong. She wanted to be okay without her— to go out and make a difference in the matter— but every minute of every day became darker and darker until Sable found herself drowning in grief over someone she, despite her torment, knew wasn’t dead. 

She called The Moonstone and requested some time off, and because her languid mourning had nowhere to go, it spread throughout her house like an infection.

Sitting quietly at the head of the dinner table in the artificially joyful dining room of her parents’ dreadful midwestern home, an untouched plate of domestic slop in front of her, Sable’s mother broke through the caterwaul of dogs outside; a look of concern Sable had seen one too many times distorting her usually jaunty face. 

“You haven’t been eating much lately.” 

“I’m just not hungry right now.” 

“You’ve been off recently– we never get to see you.” Her mom reached over to take her hand, but Sable flinched away lazily. A stormy bloom of contempt blossomed over her mother’s brow– typical.  A few ticks of silence filled the room along with her father’s incessant chewing: Bark. Tick. Chew. Repeat. 

“Sable? Don’t give me the silent treatment.” 

Sable stayed quiet, staring at the mounted crucifix placed above the fireplace. The oriental rug. Plants flowing over the bay window. Her mother sighed theatrically; already exhausted with her daughter, more interested in her picket-fence daydreams of white paint and summertime lunches. Tick. Chew. If only she knew. 

“I know it’s hard, honey. She was a wonderful girl,” was hit Sable in the gut like a hollow-point bullet. “She wouldn’t want you to mope around like this–” 

Sable clenched her fists. “That’s what you wanted to tell me? To get over it?” she sneered. 

Her mother pinched her nose. “Don’t get defensive, Sable–” 

“How?! Give me one good reason not to get defensive over the fact that my mother is telling me to get over the only person in this fucking town who understood me!” 

“Always quick to argue. For Pete’s sake, she’s not listening– Dale, say something to your daughter,” 

“Of course! Shift the responsibility over to Dad! I’m sure he has something insightful to say.” She stared at the ceiling, cheeks flushed with an ugly anger that she couldn’t conceal, tapping her foot harshly on the floor. Mother closed her eyes while Father just looked dumbfounded, a scoop of mush falling from his fork and onto his golf shirt. 

“Your mother is right,” he swallowed, cleaning off his shirt. “We just want what’s best for you, okay? But you’re skating on thin ice with the yelling. Mikaela wouldn’t–” 

Sable picked at her cuticles under the table until they bled. “You have no idea what she’d want,” she snapped, and then fled to the attic, not bothering to stare at the incredulous look of petty disappointment that never seemed to leave her parents’ faces whenever she was around. 

Why can’t they get it? she pleaded. Why now can’t they understand? 

Alone with her thoughts, Sable curled up onto the small makeshift bed she had fixed herself in the attic and cried tears of frustration onto her pillow, sallowly beaten from nights of throwing her fists at it. The moon was obscured by pallid clouds outside the window– gone was her one pillar of support–and, shaking, she opened her laptop for one last attempt at escapism before becoming angry with her feed and falling into angry, spiteful sleep. 

More small arguments burst into the halls of their home days following, the eyes of her parents sticking to her like burrs. 

-✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧-

November 16th, 2012, 3:34 AM 

xMoonlitSablex: Can’t sleep X_X Anyone have any good creepypasta forums all of my usuals are dry af 

3:42 AM 

xMoonlitSablex: SAW III is more poetic than the new romantic slop they keep pushing at the theatres right now but nobody wants to talk about that because it came out 5 years ago 

Sable’s carefully cultivated online presence told the story of someone in control of their emotions: someone calm and collected. Reblogs of strong-headed quotes, gothic fashion, and crime infoposts littered her dashboard, the only semblance of change being that she hadn’t kept up with the podcast– but her journals told a different story.

Long, dread-filled entries of longing and loneliness written in her barely legible purple hand pointed toward a woman broken. Disturbed, messy poetry flowed over the pages as if viral, spreading into entries and drawings of prosperity-promising occult symbols: 

‘Not even the shadows can shield me from this viscera,

And I cannot help but wonder

What, with your soul gone asunder,

My raconteur, 

If you can hear my cries at all 

from the depths of your tomb.’

 Sombre lyrics crowned scribbled drawings of Mikaela, done over again in religious repetition to capture her likeness without flaw: 

‘You make this all go away / I'm down to just one thing / And I'm starting to scare myself’

‘And all the things that you never ever told me, and all the smiles that are ever, ever..’  

But, as if connected to the slow drainage of ink in her fountain pen, the more she wrote, the more clear-headed she became. Soon, she became tired of writhing in her pain, the monotonous ebb and flow of her curling hand halting, remaining suspended in the air for intervals of time that stretched out the longer she looked for sentiments worthy of recording; A prominent bump manifested itself on her middle finger, flesh red and calloused. 

Agitated from a midnight coffee and days of sleeping in the attic, Sable laced up her shoes and stepped out into the late-autumn night, music blaring in her tinny earbuds. Her mind was fraying at the edges, visuals of Mikaela changing from sweet and mournful to frantic and nebulous, like a schizophrenic's artwork she’d seen online earlier. Pitifully self-aware, she understood where this self-destructive pattern would lead her– the road end sign clear ahead. It smiled at her, yellow and scratched and comforting, but somewhere, as she crossed the path of the old theatre, chorused a remainder of hope.

She sat on the bench under its neon awning, bathing in the galaxy of bright pink, blue, and violet light, held dear by the shroud of birch trees.

Maybe it was the sight of the theatre, its withered exterior conjuring fond memories of her and Mikaela; It might have been the moon, so full and rejuvenating that it blessed her bones with new prosperity; Could it have been the night wind, so sweet as it fluttered through the autumn leaves at her feet? Whatever it was, Sable felt a pull from something greater than herself as she sat on the park bench, looking at the twinkling stars above. Towards what , she didn’t know– but it was tugging at her like it had always been there, waiting. 

A woman possessed, she rose. Her feet lifted off the ground, the amorous breeze guiding her forward as she turned from the theatre. Wandering under glowing wrought-iron street lamps, her steps passed from the soft crunch of frostbitten grass to the cool click of concrete until she found herself in the sound embrace of delicate shrubbery. 

The town square was seldom a person, save for a few moths fluttering by and a cluster of gnats scumbling above her head, but Sable didn’t feel alone; her heart was thrumming hard, and there was the faintest whisper of familiarity in the air, present as any human would be by her side. The moon, too, blessed her with its bountiful light, guiding her eyes level with a memory of what was, and what could still be: 

In the middle, on the pedestal that held the statue of Greenville’s pilgrim founders, lay two faint signatures. 

Sable ran her fingers along the withering stone, the world's weight falling off her shoulders as she traced the curling lines of Mikaela’s name with her fingertips; her own just an inch below. 

July 7th, 2012 1:21 AM 

“You always find a way to get me in trouble,” Mikaela had whispered, looking around the town square with fluttering eyes. “Why not behind the theatre?” 

Sable smiled and shook her head, a devious lilt to her voice. “No. We have to do this here – I thought you hated this place as much as I do,” She uncapped the marker, her heart beating with adrenaline. 

“I do , but I also have a job I intend to keep.” 

“Job schmob. It’s behind a bush, nobody’s even going to see it.” Sable had started writing, her hand flush against the monument. 

Mikaela sighed theatrically, playing with her crystal necklace: jade wrapped in gold. “Then remind me what the point is, again?” 

“We’ll know.” 

Mikaela sighed, met Sable on the ground, pulled a marker out of her purse, and began to write. “You’re lucky I love you.”

Sable snapped a photo of the graffiti with her phone, the sting of tears threatening to tear her apart right there, but she didn’t give in– not this time– because as she revelled in the agonizing confines of memory, she remembered something else, shimmering like bells in the back of her mind. 

You’re lucky I love you,

Love makes us do crazy things, doesn’t it?

Places in the cosmos worse than hell, 

Would you go to such a place to save the one you love?

It was all there, clear as day in Mikaela’s habitual clairvoyance: a premonition, a forewarning of things to come. A vocation . Dumbfounded, Sable clasped the heart-shaped charm on her necklace and closed her eyes, a smile on her lips. She was trying to tell me the whole time. 

She rose, fingers lingering over the graffiti as she did, and stared at the bright, indelible moon with her jaw set hard. It embedded a sense of purpose within her, and for the first time since the early days of Mikaela’s disappearance, she felt drive . 

-✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧-

I loved you when it hurt inside to

But in the low light

You know I'd do anything for you

-Waco, Texas, Ethel Cain 

Part Two: Anam Cara 

Her veins thrumming with nervous excitement and a gnashing urge to go out and uncover the truth of this horrible, horrible happenstance, Sable booked it back home, breathing in the bone-dry air in giant gulps, thoughts racing a mile a minute. It scorched and burned her lungs, but she couldn’t bring herself to slow down. 

Her apartment. That’s where everything would be . What about the library? Maybe Julian knew something. 

Once she climbed her way up the crumbling driveway and successfully fumbled with her keys, she was so laser-focused that she didn’t even bother to take off her muddy shoes before leaping up the stairs. Oh well. Mom can deal with it later . 

It was refreshing to be doing something productive, despite the circumstances. She fluttered through her bedroom in the dead of night and looked for her DIY investigation kit: a pin-covered messenger bag with a notebook, pens, phone charger, mini flashlight, and a bundle of hair ties inside it. It reminded her of how things used to be, finding solace toiled in the wraps of a good mystery; long walks in the cemetery. She eagerly shrugged the bag over her shoulder and blew a brief kiss toward the photo of Mikaela tucked into her mirror. It still wasn’t the same. 

Cruising down the streets, her first stop was at the local grocery. There, she bought a candy-apple energy drink (overstock from Halloween) and hastily got back on the road, cracking it open under the hazy stoplight. Mikaela and Julian’s apartment was in the eastern part of town, closer to the grassy foothills of the driftless region. Although the ride was no longer than ten minutes, to Sable, it felt like ages before she was at the entrance to the complex, punching in the code. 

The desolate lobby made a not-unfamiliar sense of melancholy tug at her heartstrings that only increased as she walked up the stairs, and as she unlocked the door, hit her with the velocity of a shotgun blast. Yet, determined not to lose her cool this time–determined to do something this time–she swallowed down her trepidation and opened the door to apartment 555. 

“Hello,” she said softly. 

The apartment was a derelict: the usual scent of jasmine and coffee had been replaced with the stale aroma of dust, and the typically organized couch cushions were strewn about in heaps on the floor. The plants (of which there were many) were wilted, and the once-bountiful kitchen fridge had been emptied. The apartment’s plum walls felt icy, and Sable suddenly realized that it was because Mikaela wasn’t there to warm them. 

Eyes veered down at her from the tapestries on the ceiling, and Sable stared back at them, a chill running down her spine despite herself. You’re not ruining this for me, she thought, then headed toward a door she knew all too well. 

Under a near-constant cover of ivy and flora was Mikaela’s bedroom. 

It felt strange. Being there, in the cloak of night. Alone. Sable turned on the string lights that curled around her hospital-like bed frame, but the heavy loneliness didn’t cease its barrage; it got worse. She rested her bag on the bed and sat on its edge, looking at the poster-covered walls and noticing little things that didn’t matter: one was missing a thumbtack because she used it to fix one that used to blow too much in the wind at night. Her favourite plant was wilting– her moonflower was dying on the windowsill. 

‘Ipomoea alba. Isn’t she gorgeous? Like quartz.’ 

Sable shut the door but opened the slanted window, refusing to be cast asunder by the machinations of her mind. At the foot of Mikaela’s bed was her dresser, topped by a small, grey box television and VCR wreathed by hanging plants, surrounded by errant candles. She began her investigation by lighting a few and bathing in the comforting amber glow.

Sipping at her drink, Sable perused the books on Mikaela’s shelf: Frankenstein, The Complete Writings of Edgar Allan Poe, The Lottery and Other Stories by Shirley Jackson, Carmilla, The Tragedy of Cliff Barra… she stopped her finger when it brushed the edge of a spiral-bound notebook, something like anxiety pulsing through her. As much as she didn’t want to– well, part of her– reading Mikaela’s journal was the only way to get the full story. Reluctantly, she sat down and leafed through the pages until she came across an entry from two days before her disappearance: 

October 29th, 2012, 2:13 pm 

Another sleepless night. The dreams aren’t exciting anymore. I skipped work today. Julian said I should go to the doctor, check if I have insomnia or something but I know he’s shaken from what he saw the night before; doesn’t want to believe it. Maybe that’s why he’s gone. He left because I’m just crazy or hexed him or something– Don’t be stupid. That’s not it. It’s the story, the dreams, it has to be something related to what I keep seeing. My sight’s never failed me before but for once I feel like I have no one to lean on and that it's all falling apart. 

I can’t tell Sable. She’d freak. She’d fawn over the darkness of it all and probably get me into a deeper mess than I’m already in. But I wish I could tell her. Maybe I can and I’m just being general. Who knows. I’d show her the video if the video wasn’t just meaningless noise. If she could see the claw. Maybe she’s already seen it, he posted it online before he left. 

 I saw her at work yesterday and I wanted to weep and scream about everything going on and have her hold me and make me cocoa right then and there but I love her too much to do that. That’s another conversation. 

The story keeps staring at me from my desk as I write this. The words are like big jumbles and I can’t read it. I know I need to sleep but I don’t want to risk going back there or waking up dead; I don’t know what this thing wants from me. I might see Dad in the corner of my room again or wake up unable to breathe or fucking float (god) again. I’m exhausted. Eyes too dry to cry again. Too weary to focus. 

Something wants me dead and it wants everything of me but I won’t let it take me. 

Coffee number six, anyone? 

Then another. 

October 30th, 2012, 7 pm 

Dreamt I was running through a forest in thick fog (ALWAYS with the fog) and the hook pierced me again. I was covered in blood and asked someone where it came from. They didn’t realize it was my own– I didn’t know how I was still alive. The hole in my chest was wide open. I tried to tell them, but the fog whisked me away. 

 Felt watched today. Fled to my car in a hurry because I saw a shadow. Not even the usual invocation made me feel better. I miss Dad. He’d know what to do. He’d make the monster go away. 

I have to practice telling the story more no matter how much it hurts. Show this thing I’m not scared. I’m not. I’m not. 

And finally, 

October 31st, 2012, 8:24 pm 

Julian still hasn’t come back home. The festival is tonight. I’ve got it, I’ve got a story that is going to terrify everyone and I know it because it’s taken the life out of me. I’m going to perform it and this will all go away. I believe it. I need to finish what he started. 

No ache concealer can’t hide. 

I hope she notices. Pulls me back. I have to go. 

Sable slumped down in the chair, her body numb. 

Her first instinct was to feel betrayed, but the all-encompassing, sweeping acknowledgement of this tragedy struck her before the former did any major damage. Mikaela had been suffering for days and didn’t want to burden anyone with any possible consequences. Always compassionate to a fault. Selfless to the ends of the earth. 

Sable closed the journal and logged her findings in her notebook (jot notes along the lines of story, alternate dimensions, clairvoyance, nightmares, Julian gone, video/audio, a demon? ), fighting for grip on her pen. She’d been ignorant all while the problem was staring her right in the face in the form of Mikaela’s purple under-eyes and languidity at work: Her shakes, her paranoia– how she would flinch at the slightest shift in the air. And Sable was none the wiser. Purposefully, she gnawed at the inside of her cheeks. 

Some part of her, though, found it amusing. Mikaela– the sun to her moon, the constantly shining beacon of hope in her endless night– had been flirting with the dark side after all.  

The hole in her chest burned as she sorted through other miscellaneous papers on the desk, tucked between pages of books and hidden in drawers. Most of them were dressed in flourishes of pen ink, false starts to the story she had so obsessively worked on, or copied down spells she found online. The incoherent, caffeinated ramblings were so unapologetically Mikaela that Sable couldn’t help but clutch one to her chest when she came across it: ideas for All Things Wicked . 

There were hearts doodled in the corner. 

Then she remembered–

The Video. 

Hastily, she took her phone out of her bag and searched for Julian’s channel– thankfully under his full legal name. 

“Only good thing you’ve ever done for me,” Sable muttered, pressing play on a video with a blank thumbnail aptly titled SPIRIT ENCOUNTER: REAL AUDIO RECORDING. She rolled her eyes. 

The video began with white text on a black background:

‘The following audio was recorded last night in my friend’s bedroom.’ 

‘She’s been suffering nightmares for a few days now and has woken up screaming multiple times.’

‘Last night, she asked me to record her sleeping.’

‘A few minutes after I began to film, she floated into the air. What happened next I didn’t expect. A large black claw pierced through the bathroom door, and all the lights went out (the loud crack).’

‘The door was unharmed when they came back on.’

‘And all of my footage was gone, with only this audio being left. Sorry for the static. Enjoy.’

Sable closed her eyes and listened, placing herself in the room with them. When Julian’s panicked breathing crackled over the tinny speaker, she imagined him sitting right where she was, watching Mikaela lift into the air, her camisole and curls swaying. There was the sound of rustling fabric, and she understood that he was attempting to wake her. 

“Mik,” He breathed, “Mikaela, wake up! Oh my God–” 

And then the screaming started. 

It was loud– so loud that it made Sable flinch and turn the volume down two clicks. She could have been being murdered, it was so loud and agonizing. Julian was screaming alongside her until the noise congealed together and became wordless, garbled static; in Sable’s mind’s eye, Mikaela had fallen back on the bed, untacked posters smacking the wall amidst the force. Her eyes were wide open, and she was twitching like a dead fish.

‘Mikae– a!-- What– –ppened–?!’ 

‘I don’t– ow–!’

 There was heaving of chests, panicked wheezes, more random bursts of static– 

and then thunder sounded. 

The claw.  

More yells, as if the two had been swallowed up into a violent tornado– and Sable was right with them, staring at the splinters of wood flying into the air as the claw hacked and pounded through the bathroom door, her heart beating, flying in her chest. 

‘Is it over?’ Mikaela choked. Her throat was constricted like she might’ve been about to cry, or been crying. 

Sable didn’t know the video had ended until the autoplay started an episode of Marble Hornets she hadn’t watched yet. She turned around, half-expecting to find the room in disarray, Mikaela limp on the bed and the door torn to shreds, her head and heart were heavy as lead— but there was nothing there. 

She put her phone down. Took a few deep breaths and waited for her thoughts to reorganize themselves, which took longer than she would have liked. Ohmygodohmygodohmygod she levitated she levitated she was so far down this thing’s rabbit hole that she LEVITATED and oh god what was Julian even DOING see I knew he was a total moron– sounded like a snuff film or something like that scene in the exorcist and that one story Barra wrote or an SCP or some other but it couldn’t have been the unknown I know that—

Sable rubbed her temples. Threw the empty drink into the trash can underneath the desk. Ruminated over all of it; probed through the file folder of urban legends in her mind, and the word fog screamed at her like it was being etched into her frontal lobe. 

Mikaela had spoken in her story of alternate dimensions of endless pain and suffering, and wherever the characters in her story went, the fog always seemed to follow them– an omen that permeated even her dreams. This fog she spoke of and dreamed of prophetically had taken her just like it had her characters, most definitely without coincidence– and Sable was noticing an eerie connection to a topic callers had informed her about on the air: 

Fractures: created by acolytes of an elder god, overlap between worlds, a cosmic buffet. 

Elder god. Alternate world. Pain and misery. 

Black. Fog. 

Was The Moonstone built on top of one of these fractures? Was that why Mikaela had been this entity’s target? It all aligned, the proverbial puzzle pieces clicking together in varying degrees of satisfaction as she scribbled down notes in her book, the haze clearing the more she pored over the contents of Mikaela’s journal. 

Sable took a moment to look at the situation from an outsider perspective, someone not a mystic obsessed with true crime and niche pockets of history. She pictured herself, in drab clothing and with her boring natural hair, walking down Greenville’s main street for the first time, a bright beam on her imaginary face. 

What a lovely little town, oh, maybe I need to move out of the big city… 

She walked past the falling-apart barber shop ( oh, how vintage!) and brushed her fingertips along the blooming gardenias dotted along numerous pastel storefronts. However, as she waited at the crosswalk, she saw a bold poster tacked to the pole. What a sweet-looking girl, that Mikaela.. I hope they find her soon. 

Fake-Sable marched down the street, now with a baguette in her arms and the fresh taste of coffee on her lips, swaying to the sounds of chirping birds, viewing the town with brand new eyes. 

But then, as she looked at a cluster of fliers tacked to a board outside the local bakery, she saw another one amidst an advertisement for a clothing drive. You’re missing too? 

Soon, Fake-Sable found she couldn’t ignore them. They were everywhere , from intense white to peeling, aged yellow. Men, women, and children– missing posters for all demographics boxed the town in like bad wallpaper. 

Sable went back into her real head and touched her thankfully dyed hair (which, much to her dismay, was fading), but was embarrassed by her ignorance. Usually, she’d notice something like this straight away. Mikaela wasn’t here to keep her on her toes. 

Aggravated but invigorated by her discovery, she checked the clock on her phone: 3:34 AM. Sadly, the library (and therefore access to the town’s archive) closed at 9 and didn’t open until 10. She couldn’t take her investigation further ‘til morning. 

So, after a few more frivolous minutes of simultaneous longing and analyzing (pacing the apartment and scrolling forums on her phone until her fingers went numb), a deep-rooted soreness in her bones signalled to Sable that it was time to momentarily suspend her investigation. 

Setting down her notes and allowing her clothes to fall at her feet, she slipped into a pair of black silk pyjamas left in the bottom drawer of Mikaela’s dresser specifically for her, feeling suddenly at ease when the gentle material caressed her skin. Solemnly, she settled herself under the familiar comforter, guiding herself into the grooves where her body once lay, what felt like a thousand years ago. 

Polaroids were hung by her head, all blurry shots of the two of them or Sable herself: ‘ Endless Halloween Festival 2010’, ‘GHS graduation’, ‘Sable + her new BFF’. She smiled slightly at the last one, a snapshot of a butterfly that had landed on her microphone one night in the attic; Mikaela had framed the moment perfectly, even if her thumb had covered the camera a little and left a small blur of orange in the corner—Halcyon times of the past. 

I’ll find you. I promise. 

A hint of vanilla perfume tickled her nose as she pulled the blankets up past her chin and closed her eyes, the tranquil scent easing her jumbled thoughts into a peaceful quiet. 

It was like she was holding her. Almost. 

When she dreamed, she dreamed she was at the theatre with her. Under the light of the flickering silver screen, in the safety of darkness, their lips met. 

-✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧-

The sound of sheeting rain welcomed Sable back into consciousness the next morning, and she welcomed it right back. After stealing an outfit from Mikaela’s wardrobe (her favourite purple hoodie and a pair of ripped black jeans), gathering her things, and hastily washing her face, Sable bid the house goodbye and walked out the door with too many goals in mind to count. 

The gloomy day didn’t deter her mood, and for a strange second as she waited for her coffee at The Moonstone, she felt for once as if she was the only happy person in town. She smiled to herself as she left, the damp, cool air like a gentle kiss on her cheek. 

She kept her eyes peeled for missing posters hidden behind tattered American flags and historic banners on the way to the library, and scribbled down the details of each in her notepad when she came across each, the pull of her investigation only getting stronger the more she added to the count. 

She recorded, in order: 

Mikaela Reid, last seen 10/30/12 at The Moonstone Cafe at 10:15 PM

Julian Lawrence, last seen 10/28/12 at the community college at 11:30 AM

Elias and Elan Williams, last seen 9/15/12 at the Greenville Theatre around 11:30 PM

Kate Townshend, last seen 3/30/12 at the Greenville Theatre around 9:40 PM

And Ruth Shepherd, last seen 4/26/11. Greenville Theatre. 8:25 PM. 

By the time she made it through the old double doors and into the library, she was practically itching with the need to get to the archives. 

One of the only good things about Greenville: the library was huge. Connected to the community college campus, its crumbling dark wood interiors held all the records, volumes, and tomes beyond Sable’s wildest dreams. Sauntering across the diamond-tile floors, revelling in the scent of dust and paper that swirled around her, she made her way to the front desk. 

Hidden behind the large oak monolith was a kind-looking librarian with silken grey hair tied into a knot at the nape of her neck. She peered up from her square-framed glasses when Sable approached, wearing a friendly smile cracked by age– at least here, she was free from judgment. 

“Hi, Sable. What do you need help with today?” Sable felt a little ball of light glow in her chest; most people never bothered to remember her name. 

“Hi, I was hoping you could help me to access the newspaper records?” 

“Oh, piece of cake,” she rolled her chair over to her computer, the blue light illuminating her messy blush. “What years did you have in mind?” 

“Um, anything from now ‘till 1925..?” Sable recalled the year the theatre was established from the many nights she spent in front of the marquee. 

The librarian sucked air in through her teeth and made an apologetic frown. “Oh, sorry, dear. The computers don’t go back that far– we do have some older clippings in the back, though. Might have to dust off the microfilm reader,” she laughed. “I’d suggest starting in the records room, it’s just down the hall to the right.” 

Sable thanked the librarian and made her way to the aforementioned room (much larger than she anticipated), where a nervous technician greeted her and promptly left her alone to use the microfilm reader: a great, big, whirring thing with a square display like a computer. The technician had arranged a small number of film reels for her to browse through, starting from April 1923. It was just her, the rain, and the gentle shushing of the air conditioner, encircled by thousands of shelved manila folders. 

At first, it was mind numbingly boring: articles about the economic state of the world, ads for snow boots, ladies’ coats, the works– she took a small break to put in her earbuds out of sheer lack of stimulation– until she came across the front page story for the May 23rd, 1923 issue of  The Greenville Tribune : 

SCHOOLHOUSE SET ABLAZE! 

Yesterday evening, the old one-room Catholic schoolhouse downtown mysteriously burst into flames and resulted in the tragic loss of everybody inside, along with the building itself. Parents are wracked with grief, with the death toll yet to be confirmed by the authorities. Investigations are still being conducted… 

The photograph included was a shoddy black and white affair, but the low-quality lines blurred together to form a mirage of ash shrouded in what seemed to be birch trees— 

Scrolling further, Sable’s assumption was confirmed. 

NEW THEATRE OPEN FOR BUSINESS! 

In early 1924, the theatre was built over the site of the tragedy, 

or what was left of it. 

She scribbled down her findings, finding her chest straining tightly against her corset. For whatever reason, she was fascinated. The dark, morbid tendrils of mystery hooked themselves into her and made her heart beat; she was on the precipice of something. 

She thought of the ashes left in the soil, leaching into the ground, and felt softly sick at the thought of cement being poured over a site of such pain; the spirits wandering listlessly, waiting for the recess bell to ring. 

All that suffering– wouldn’t a God that feeds on energy flock toward the scene of an event as horrific as that? The word fracture came to mind again. 

After a few useless minutes of clicking through the reels, Sable packed up her things and left the records room, a pep in her step. Sitting down at one of the old-but-still-functional computers tucked away near the back of the library, she went onto phase two of her investigation: the missing persons reports. 

The computer whirred to life, and it only took her a few minutes of (boring) wait time for the PressReader site to load. When it did, she typed and clicked faster than she had ever typed and clicked before. 

She skipped over doing any research into Mikaela and Julian– for obvious reasons– and went down the list in her notepad from there: 

TWINS MISSING– SISTER HOSPITALIZED. 

According to the local paper, Elias and Elan Williams had gone missing a little over a month before Mikaela had. Their last known location was at the theatre, with witnesses claiming that they had supposedly been catching a movie with their sister, Ellen, when they suddenly vanished. However, much to Sable’s intrigue, that wasn’t the end of the story. Shortly after, ambulances were rushed to the scene when Ellen attempted to “mutilate herself” and was promptly taken to a facility for “further examination”. 

Sable didn’t have to think hard to know which facility she’d wound up in– there was only one near Greenville, a three-hour drive away; she’d talked about its history on her show, once. Before the rebrand, it’d been called the Northern State Hospital for the Insane– on her show, she talked about its large on-site graveyard overlooking Lake Winnebago, the more than two hundred tombstones desiccated and nameless. Sable felt a surge of empathy for Ellen then. She didn’t intend for this to happen. 

Some things are beyond our control. 

The next few cases followed the same formula– the victim was at or near the theatre and subsequently disappeared under the cloak of night. Everything added up too well for it to be a miraculous coincidence, and as Sable left the library and walked out into the rain, she understood what she had to do next. 

She had to pay Ellen a visit. 

-✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧-

Around 4 that evening, Sable sat on her bedroom floor with her laptop open. She had the psychiatric ward’s website open, and a pumpkin-scented candle burning on her nightstand to ease her tremors. She was no stranger to asking strange questions, but this was unlike anything she’d done before; if she didn’t get a visit, she’d lose her one lead. That would be devastating beyond relief. 

Thankfully, Mrs. Reid was close enough to the family to have gotten insight from Ellen’s mother about the unit she was in, and after yet another uncomfortable phone call, Sable got the information. 

North Sherman Hall. 

After a couple of seconds of procrastinating, she took a deep breath and punched the number into her cellphone. 

“Winnebago Mental Health Institute, how may I help you?” 

She cleared her throat. “Hi, my name is Sable Ward– I’m calling to inquire about visiting a patient.” 

The receptionist asked for the patient’s name, unit, and what the intentions of her visit were; she answered as truthfully as was allotted, dancing around the fact that she was here on a matter of personal investigation into a demonic entity. Instead, she claimed that she knew Mrs. Reid and wanted to see how Mikaela’s mother’s friend's daughter was doing. It was messy. Nevertheless, she broke through, stomach flipping on the other side of the line. 

“You said this Saturday at 3 pm, correct?” 

Sable’s veins thrummed with excitement– so close. “Yes, that’s correct.” 

“Please hold while we contact Ms. Williams,” and then the receptionist's voice was taken over by overly cheery elevator-esque music. Her pulse quickened– she was in the home stretch. Pleasepleaseplease she muttered, wiping the sweat from her palms onto her legs. 

She looked around her room as she waited, taking a moment to reflect. She hadn’t wanted to think about what the implications of finding an entryway to wherever Mikaela was would be, choosing to focus on the fact of their reunion– her soft curls, the chime of her laugh. But what if there was no way out? What if she never got to lie on her bed again and look out at the moon? Or do her makeup in the light of the early morning, listening to her CD’s? It was trivial, she knew– but was she ready to hypothetically let it all go? The sound of crows at the cemetery, the beautiful, lush green of the forest? 

She leaned her head back against the side of her bed and picked at the rug she sat upon, decorated with a spiderweb pattern. The window above her desk was open, the black lace curtains fluttering slightly. From where she was, she could see powerlines weaving through the sky, dotted along the street, cutting through town like spiderwebs of their own. She felt a sudden longing to walk along them and see where they would lead her. Maybe they’d lead her to Mikaela, waiting for her on a lonely highway with the wind in her hair and an outstretched hand. 

Or maybe just toward a slow, time-consuming death, Sable collapsing from fatigue with her feet cracked and bleeding. Returning to the Earth for the bugs to live off of, a patch of grass and wildflowers taking over the dirt that held her as she died. She couldn’t decide which was worse. Lonely death or painful eternity with whom she loved.

 Life without her was implausible. Impossible. 

But —

The sudden crackle of the receptionist's voice startled her from her reverie: 

“Okay, we’ve scheduled your visit for 3:30 pm on Saturday, the 24th of November.” 

Sable blinked a tear from her eye. “Perfect, thank you.” 

-✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧-

When Saturday arrived, she didn’t need to tell her parents where she was going because they didn’t care. She ate quietly without speaking a word to them, a strange sting of guilt within her breast. She left the house at 11:30 that morning to the gentle whisk of snow flurrying past the windows, the roads covered in a light dusting of white that kissed her cheeks when she stepped outside. 

She dressed meticulously, having read up on what was and was not allowed to be brought into the facility. Her makeup was more or less the same, except for her lips– they were covered in a light mauve gloss rather than matte black lipstick–, but she still took the time to draw a small black heart under her left eye in eyeliner. Her clothes, however, were deeply upsetting to her: a striped purple sweater, black shorts, leggings, and a pair of ballet flats. No jewelry, no shoes with laces. She had a jacket with her, but wouldn’t be allowed to bring it into the building, same with her purse. All she had to bring in was her notebook anyway.

She put in a CD and began to drive, humming along as she followed the same powerlines she had thought of the other day. They never seemed to end. They were everywhere. 

As she passed her old high school, the church, and finally the crumbling, white Come back soon! sign that signalled she was out of the town. The rolling hills of her hometown settled into even fields and nothing but endless sky. Her hair twisted this way and that in the wind as the birch forests began to thin, and lonely, abandoned barns appeared along the long stretches of cracked road. 

The snow abated the further she drove, the sun making itself known slowly but surely as she cruised down the highway. All throughout the drive, she played out all the ways her interaction with Ellen could go in her head; it couldn’t be too blunt, she knew that, but part of her wanted to rattle the information out of the poor woman and get on with it– she only did have 30 minutes. 

While stopping for gas at the closest station she could find in Columbus, she quickly went inside to the restroom. There, while washing her hands, she caught her reflection in the musty glass and couldn’t help but stare back. 

She’d changed , in ways that she didn’t want to accept. Her eyes, once green and bright with rebellion and dreams, were dark, and circled by deep shadows of bruise-like purple from all the sleepless nights. Her hair was stringy, and her natural roots were leaching into the silvery white like lake water. Lifting up her bangs, she found there were pink clusters of acne forming on her hairline. Sable felt her shoulders slump as she held onto the sink, looking down at the dirty faucet in the blinking overhead light. 

I can’t do this , she wanted to scream. I want to go home to you. I want to pretend this never happened . 

Crumbling, she reached into her purse and ignored the pounding on the door, the shouts that she’d been in there too long. She searched until she found two crystals and cradled them in her palm, amazonite and blue apatite, clutching them dear and whispering an incantation Mikaela had always used in times of strife: 

I call upon the spirits of the night 

To aid us in our desperate flight

Hear my plea, and help me find the light 

She said it over and over and over again until her breathing returned to normal, and she felt some semblance of calm. For a second amidst the rot, she thought she could smell a hint of vanilla. 

After shoulder-checking the person waiting outside the door when she stepped back outside, she got back on the road and cracked open an energy drink at the lights, psyching herself up; there was only an hour left of the drive. 

-✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧-

The entrance to Winnebago Mental Health Institute was not nearly as ceremonious as she’d expected. There was no huge, towering chain-link fence welcoming her onto the grounds, only connected to parts of the buildings. If anything, the big patches of grass and segmented, polygonal-shaped structures shrouded in dying trees made it feel like a college campus. Nevertheless, Sable felt awkward as she stepped, notebook in hand, out of her car and walked the path up to the front doors of Ellen’s unit. 

The first thing she noticed when she stepped inside was how silent it was. There was no moaning or screaming or horrific shrieking like in the movies– just pure, stagnant silence. Maybe something was being carted down the hallway, but that was all. 

Sable walked to the large oak desk– the main foyer was like a regular hospital’s in a muted palette– and was greeted by a woman who looked about her mother’s age. 

The woman was sluggish and tired, but pointed Sable toward the visiting room with only moderate judgment. She felt like she was still in Greenville, then, when she was looked up and down by scrutinizing eyes. At least it was familiar. 

When Sable was allowed in, the silence was cut through by intermittent murmurs. Families were crowded around tables, their loved ones sitting ostracized on the other side, looking fossilized. The patients wore white smocks, some with intricate hoods woven over their heads. Spit hoods, Sable remembered. But, none of them looked crazy, just– sad. Or like they might wither away. Nurses watched haphazardly, picking at their nails in boredom. One caught Sable standing at the doorway and walked her toward a table at the far end of the cement-block-esque room. There, Ellen sat. 

She couldn’t have been any older than Sable, with a youthful glow around her slumped shoulders and pale skin. Her hair was cut close to her scalp, just a faint whisper of blonde covering it like a newborn baby's tufts. She had rosy, unmanicured hands that were knotted together in waiting, and her head hung low, obscured by shadow even in the bright room. Sable couldn’t see her face fully. 

“Ellen, your visitor is here,” The nurse carefully approached her, not hesitating to place a hand on her shoulder. Ellen jumped slightly at the contact, like a skittish deer, and that’s when Sable saw her eyes–or, rather, lack of. 

‘Mutilate herself…’ ‘Further examination…’ 

Where what Sable assumed to have been bright, doe-like eyes, were puffed up lumps of folded over skin with stick-like eyelashes barely poking through the space where they met. Gummy pink permeated the edges, the remnants of a surgery that had yet to be fully healed making itself known. Sable also noticed then that Ellen’s fingernails were cut so short she could see the skin puffing over where more length should be. To prevent her from doing it again– 

A small sickness invaded Sable’s stomach, but she swallowed it down. This was a human being, hurt worse than she could imagine by something she couldn’t possibly understand. Ellen was a victim of the situation. Just as Mikaela was. 

Ellen softly smiled and reached for Sable’s hands as she sat down, much to her surprise. Sable looked at the nurse hesitantly, a wave of melancholy and incorrect pity frothing over her. 

“It’s alright, you can touch her. It’s how she gets her bearings.” With that, the nurse went back to her station at the back of the room, observing from afar. Sable looked back at Ellen, who was still smiling sadly– albeit in the wrong direction. Breathing in, Sable brushed her hands on Ellen’s knuckles. 

“Oh, you’re’ s’there,” Ellen muttered into her chest, her voice with a small midwestern ribbon tied around it. It was quiet, though. Solemn. 

“Hi, Ellen, I’m Sable,” 

“I know, the nurse told me– you’re a friend of my mama’s friend’s.. Or somethin’ like that’s anyways,” she tilted her head, “I think I seen you before. With Mrs. Reid’s daughter. Is your hair dyed crazy colours?” 

Sable inhaled, taken aback but not surprised by the association; everyone knew everybody in Greenville. “Yes, Mikaela. And yeah, it’s been white and purple for a while,” Sable allowed herself a small smile. 

“I knew I remembered your name from somewhere– everyone says you guys are witches,” she chuckled, light and breathy. Sable laughed as well, a sad affair, her heart stinging. 

“That’s all true, but, Ellen, I’m actually here to ask you some questions– something happened to Mrs. Reid’s daughter,” 

Her smile dropped. “Oh.” She withdrew from Sable’s hand and went back to playing with her own fingers. “I’m sorry about that.. But I probably wouldn’t have anything to tell ya..” She said gloomily, like it wasn’t true. 

Sable pulled out her notebook and laid it out on the table. “I’m sorry to inconvenience you like this, but she needs help. She went missing last month, on Halloween.” Her eyes searched Ellen’s sightless visage for any sort of recognition as she spoke; it washed over her like a dark tidal wave when she said the word missing . “I did some research, and I think I might know what took her… and your brothers.” 

Ellen twitched and went silent. 

Sable eyed the clock– she had 20 minutes. “I can help you– and her. But I need to know what happened when they disappeared.” She turned her voice to a gentle hum, almost pleading, and tapped her foot against the cracked linoleum floor. “I need to know what you saw that was so terrible.” 

Ellen sighed and furled inward, reached for Sable’s hand again. She took it gently, modulating each breath carefully. 

“It’s.. It’s not that I saw anything so terrible, I– …” She paused, deep in thought in a way that looked almost painful. 

“It’s okay, take your time.” 

“They heard… there was old movie posters behind the stage of the movie theatre– I don’t remember who told them, probably one of Elias’ friends who were always gettin’ into trouble. Matthew or Mike or something like that, I couldn’t’ve been bothered.

“I was bored, and I trusted them and I wanted to do somethin’ so I went along with ‘em. I remember tellin’ my mom we were goin’ out to that ice cream place that's open late, and she told us all to stay safe, and we all said we would be, y’know, the usual.. So we got in Elan’s car n’ drove up to the theatre.

“They were the types to do things you aren’t really supposed to do, like spraypaintin’ walls and stealing from stores and smokin’ pot. But they weren’t mean-spirited. They dragged me along ‘cause they thought it’d be fun for me, that I’d enjoy it– so they snuck into the theatre through the back usin’ a crowbar they told me ‘ta hold. Whole time I was just shaking like a leaf, lookin’ around my shoulders waitin’ for the police or security to show up,” Ellen laughed darkly, miming the action. Sable scribbled notes down in her book hastily, trying to keep up. 

“So’s we made it to the room behind the screen, and there they were– Crumbling old things that didn’t look worth much more than a dime to me– and when they moved one of ‘em that was against the wall, they found a door. Looked like the wall– like someone’d cut it out. There was this– this– this fog,” her breathing started to come out in stuttered bursts, her chest moving raggedly. Sable gripped her hand tightly, having dropped her pen. “There was a long passageway an’ I told ‘em to not go down there, I told ‘em I wanted to go home and they just laughed. They went anyway n’ the fog swallowed ‘em up and when I looked down to see where they’d gone I saw things it didn’t want me to see. I wasn’t me. And I– I didn’t want to but– but I–”

The two stayed silent for a while, only the sound of Ellen’s intermittent sobs filling the space between them. Sable ran her thumb along her knuckles and put a hand on her shoulder, feeling more emotions than she’d have liked to. 

“They..” Ellen suddenly started in a whispered hush, “They went somewhere dark and cold an’... evil . You have to stay away from there, Sable, 

I don’t think your Mikaela s’gonna be there.” 

Suddenly, the nurse came to the table. Time was up. 

“Sable? You’re not gonna go there, right?” Ellen pleaded. “You’ll come see me again and we can talk’s about somethin’ else?” 

Heart beating, stomach sick, Sable rubbed her arm and forcefully smiled, even though she wouldn’t have seen it. 

“Yeah. Thanks for all your help, Ellen.” 

“You’ll be around?” 

“I’ll be around.” 

-✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧-

It is such a precious thing to be loved

Such a precious, magnificent thing to be loved

Such a wondrous and painful thing to be loved

-Housofpsychoticwomn, Ethel Cain

Part Three: Kismet

Sable watched the pink evening sun set with her back pressed against an oak tree. After leaving Sherman Hall, she sat in her car and waited for an incentive to move, catatonic. It was 4:40 when she decided to find her way through the brush to Asylum Point. Now, she was in the mental hospital’s cemetery, watching the unkempt grass sway through the unmarked graves in the autumn wind. 

There was so much she should have been thinking about that she wasn’t. Her head was empty, s o empty it made her wilt, but there were images. Little flashes of time, of home, of the powerlines. She knew what was next. As much as she loved the breeze, she needed to go. 

The spirits guided her back along the trail and whispered goodbye when she left. 

When she got to her car, she took a CD out from the booklet in her glove compartment: a blank silver disc with for Sable written on it in black marker, stars and moons dotted along the edges. 

The first song played, and she started the drive back home, cradling a ball of light and dark in her chest, softly singing along.

It was dark when she got back to Greenville. Her car was the only one on the road, and the closer she got to her house, the faster her heart began to beat. But her mother wasn’t waiting at the door; her father wasn’t in the living room chair in front of the television, either. Silence filled where sports announcers would usually chime. There was a note on the fridge, though: 

Gone to John + Steph’s. Dinner’s in the fridge. Love, Mom. 

Sable walked upstairs to her bedroom and closed the door. She threw her purse on her star-speckled bed and opened her laptop— she stared at a blank blog post and contemplated writing a long-winded goodbye. Words came to her, sentences forming themselves along the walls of her brain and itching to be set free– but they would find no such solace. She decided it’d be more mysterious to let it be. Instead, she wrote; 

If we walk far enough, we shall sometime come to someplace. 

Anxious to get going, she ignored the pit in her stomach and went to shower; she was almost giddy. 

It felt like she was getting ready for her first date. 

-✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧-

Green filtered through the trees around Greenville Square.  

The night wind breezed past Sable’s legs as she walked toward the marquee, stars twinkling above in the dark, moonless sky. She was ready. Her favourite black, frilly corset was laced up tight around her waist, and her makeup was done how she’d always liked to do it; the way her parents didn’t like. Confidence took hold of her, easing away her worries. 

She was here. She was prepared. She wasn’t backing out. 

She was going to see Mikaela again. 

A few feet ahead, she could see that the door to the theatre was open . From where she stood, she could clearly see the white and blue striped walls and crimson carpet of the lobby, illuminated. 

In the daytime, this would be no strange anomaly; except it was past midnight. No cars but hers were in the parking lot. 

From the right entrance, she heard the pinging of arcade machines, the indigo light spilling out onto the concrete. A wave of apprehension fell upon her. Something was not right. 

Guided by the comforting ringing of the machines and the rainbow-speckled carpet, she set her course. Passing through the maze of knocked-over fountain drink cups and game tokens, a chill ran down her spine; the machines looked– wrong, somehow. There was a blanket of static over the screens that flashed and buzzed, and when she walked closer to them, flickered an image she couldn’t make out. As she crushed a bundle of spilled popcorn under her sneaker, she could have sworn she saw a shadow move in her peripheral. 

But when she turned around, there was nothing there. 

The lobby was equally as desolate. From the back of the concession stand, popcorn popped endlessly inside the machine, overflowing in disjointed bursts that made Sable jump. She’d spent so much time here with Mikaela, debating what snacks to pay their entire college savings on, waiting for one another to arrive when they had plans; walking through the lobby without her, without anyone, felt like padding through an abandoned pocket of spacetime: unlawful. 

It had to be the theatre, didn’t it? 

Soft piano was playing from the speakers. 

On edge, she walked through the plush-red, open doors to the screening room, following the dots of light along the carpeted floor that she knew better than her own home. 

The doors shut behind her, encasing the theatre in deafening silence. 

Bright, focused streams of light caught the edge of her eye in the darkness when she rounded the corner. The projector was casting a blurry, unintelligible sequence of clips onto the silver screen, yet, as she already knew, there was nobody in the rows to watch it. 

Sable’s footsteps echoed throughout the derelict theatre, Thud, Thud, down the stairs. She paused to survey the area, her eyes scanning the empty seats for a fallen-asleep security guard or janitor working the night shift– anything to explain the situation. Nothing. She figured she already knew, 

but didn’t want to say it. 

It was waiting for her. 

Locking eyes with a camera fixed overhead, reminiscing over the charged tension she felt many a time sitting next to Mikaela in the seats, she heard it: an elongated, pained moan from the right of where she stood, stretching out into the abyss of the empty theatre. Drawn back to the present, she remembered what Ellen had said and mounted the small wooden stage in front of the screen. 

There was a door to the right of it. 

Behind her, something moved and made a noise like breaking bones. But, again, when she turned around, there was nothing there. 

She pushed through the door; as she suspected, it was unlocked.

 Before her was a dusty, rickety wooden staircase adorned with metal railings that coated her hands in black as she descended into the theatre’s cellar. An aging, scratched-up door stood at the end of a short hall. This one she had to strain herself to push open; a box was in the way. 

However, it toppled over when she threw her shoulder hard against the door, film reels spilling out onto the lifting floorboards in loud clatters. 

Closing the door behind her, she flicked on her phone’s flashlight; 

“Mikaela?” She called, wading through the piles of memorabilia on the dusty oak floor. Her light touched a collection of old theatre chairs in the corner, their velvet fabric pilling and faded from years of neglect. Other relics of the past lined the walls, yellowing posters dating back eighty-some years swinging on old nails, forgotten ticket-stubs and children’s stuffed animals stored away inside the dozens of cardboard boxes scattered at her feet. 

A slight whooshing noise permeated the quiet, like the rush of air from an open window. 

Scaling the floor with her flashlight, she found the source: a thick, pitch black fog billowing from behind a large, framed poster for the original Frankenstein . Resting her phone on a nearby box, she pushed it aside, revealing a crack in the wall. 

 No, not a crack in the wall– 

a door in the wall. 

Fog spilled out of it in huge, endless bursts. It covered the floor until Sable felt as if she were wading through it like a strange, funereal ocean. 

Looking down, she made out the shape of stairs. A never-ending, jet black set of stairs. 

The moan sounded again, deep and brooding and pained from further down the chasm. 

Sable passed the threshold. 

It was dark. So dark that her phone’s flashlight didn’t make any difference in the matter. The fog swirled at her feet, and before she had the chance to give in to her instinct to run , the door had swung shut behind her. Sable was left alone. In the dark. Like she had been since her only light went out. 

All she could hear was her own breathing, shallow and quick and, despite herself, panicked. Afraid. 

Her shoes hovered over the next steps, right at the edge of the crumbling, damp stone. Shaking, she began to walk down. 

The further she went, the thicker the fog got. It swathed around her knees and brushed against her fingertips, cool to the touch. It was soft, gentle like violet, which only scared her even more. She held her breath. 

After a few long minutes, she started to hear whispers. Faint little things, as gentle as the fog was. But they were warm, tangible, even—Scintilla’s of love— of adoration. 

It sounded like Mikaela, telling her story. The rise and fall of her voice was familiar, Sable remembering how her heart danced when the rhythm of it, better than any song, filled The Moonstone before she disappeared. It was the same, but sweeter. Softer. There was no heightened secrecy or flair— it sounded just how a lover would whisper affections into their beloved’s ear. Light. Thick with sleep. 

“ Do you believe in love? ” 

Yes , Sable wanted to scream. Yes, why wouldn’t I believe in love? It’s why I paint a heart on my cheek. It’s why I’m here –

Of course, I believe in love. 

But the fog was up to her neck, now, and she was running. Running toward the whispers, running toward the darkness before her. 

She pictured herself in her thunderstorming mind, the final girl. The broken beauty. The woman strong amidst the terror. 

And then she remembered Mikaela, already there. With the monsters and the carnage and viscera, surrounded on every front by endless, terrible horror. Already there. Already having fun without her. 

Fun. 

Yes. It will be fun , she told herself.

You want this. 

This is what you want.

This is all you’ve ever wanted.

“ This is where you’re supposed to be .” 

The fog was everywhere, in her pores and filling her lungs in hazy, vanilla-tinged gasps; drowning her, making her choke and cough and sputter and stumble, delirious. 

This is where I’m supposed to be. 

The last thing she felt before it all went dark was her legs giving out, and her body falling down the stairs. 

Falling, falling. 

-✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧⋆˖⁺‧₊☾𖤓‧⁺˖⋆ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧-

Dancing with the windows open

I can't let go when something's broken

It's all I know and it's all I want now

-Sun Bleached Flies, Ethel Cain

Part Four: Fragment 147

October 31st, 2011

It’s Halloween. 

Music is blaring. Lights are strobing. Drunk people are dancing. There’s a drink in Sable’s gloved hand that she didn’t remember taking. Her mask is lopsided on her face. Her dress is buttoned down lower than she remembered buttoning it, but she doesn’t care. All she can see is her, haloed in the shifting kaleidoscopic lights. 

Her fiery, curly hair, once elegantly tamed, now frames her face like a portrait of an amaranthine Goddess. Her makeup, once carefully applied to mimic cat whiskers, is smudged all over her freckled cheeks. She’s beautiful. She’s beautiful, and she’s staring at Sable. 

The music is terrible. The people are worse. Nobody knows who Sable’s come here as. Someone thought she was a pin-up girl when she had her mask off. 

But everybody’s eyes are on the black cat. 

Watching her under this light is like seeing her for the first time. 

But it’s not. 

They’ve known each other forever. Longer than forever. 

So now, why, why are her crystal eyes sending pain toward Sable’s heart that she didn’t know it was ever capable of feeling? 

Mikaela walks closer, and her heart beats faster than it ever has. Sable feels her lips curl into a smile against the papier mache. Someone bumps into her. She doesn’t notice. 

“Having fun?” Mikaela says over the blaring song, something electronic. In Sable’s head, it’s playing something more romantic than she can put into words. 

“I think so,” Sable responds, yelling to be heard from behind her mask, all the while trying to avoid looking at Mikaela’s eyelashes. The skin of her exposed midriff. 

Mikaela laughs, the sound like ringing bells. “C’mon, lighten up. You can try my new soap when we get back home!” 

“Everyone’s staring at you,” 

Mikaela looks around, rolls her eyes, then gestures to Sable’s outfit. “Are you kidding? Everyone’s staring at you. ” 

“Only ‘cause they don’t know what my costume is,” 

Mikaela frowned. “Well.. I mean, how many people show up to a party dressed as a monster from a video game that came out 10 years ago?” 

“People come as Mario all the time,” Sable countered.

“Okay, but as a freaky manifestation of how bad some guy wanted to get it on with his terminally ill wife whom he secretly murdered..?” 

“You remembered the story,” Sable breathed, touched more than Mikaela could have known, then. 

“Of course I did. It was all you talked about for months!” 

Sable smiled, enjoying the banter. “Well, we could have matched, but nooo, you had to go as something pretty,” She pointed to Mikaela’s cat ears, her swooshing tail. 

Mikaela looked puzzled. “You don’t think you look pretty? Even like this?” 

Sable paused.

The party continued on around them, but right then, in their little corner of the world, it stopped. 

Her eyes were glittering. A novantique beauty in them. 

“Oh, Sable,” Mikaela unhooked the back of Sable’s mask, cradling it in her hands. Suddenly, their faces were so close to one another. Close enough to kiss. To breathe in. So close it made Sable’s head swim with thousands of desires she never had before, and made her knees weak. 

Mikaela gently touched her flushed cheek, smiling. “You’re spellbinding,” 

-✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧⋆˖⁺‧₊☾𖤓‧⁺˖⋆ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧-

Sable woke to her cheek pressed hard against the ground. Her eyes, thick with sleep, could barely open, and with the little vision she had, she couldn’t make out where she was. There was a terrible ringing in her ears that pierced her brain and made her curl up into herself like a child. 

She closed her eyes. She forgot what she was looking for amidst the pain and confusion, but as soon as she remembered freckled skin and orange curls and ocean eyes, she was pushing herself up, and falling back down. 

She tried again and fell. 

She tried once more, and still she fell. 

On the third time, she came to realize that every time she hit the ground, her cheek met damp grass. 

She heard crackling, and the rushing of wind through trees. 

“Mikaela..?” She mumbled. 

On her knees, she rubbed her swollen eyes and looked around: she was in a dark, long forest. Thick, lustrous evergreens were all around her, swaying in a wind that seemed not to come from one specific direction. There was no moon in the deep blue night sky. No stars. 

Wobbling, she pushed herself toward the crackling noise, using the trees for support. As she inched closer to it, she could see a faint orange glow pouring from a clearing in the treeline, embers soaring through the ether. 

Easing her way through the brush, she found the source: a campfire. 

Behind the soaring flames sat a figure,

 waiting. 

From across the campfire, Sable locked eyes with Mikaela Reid. 

Kind, sweet, loving Mikaela Reid. 

Who was as beautiful as she’d always been, as graceful, as bright as the sun, and so, so very alive . 

She didn’t know when she started to run, but she was. She was diving into her arms like she’d not felt their warm embrace for centuries. She heaved, sobbing, weeping on her breast, and although Mikaela did not know why, she did not back away. She held her there, shaking, smoothing her silver locks so gently with ringed fingers. Hers was a touch as soft as a patchwork quilt made of the stars. 

In the crook of her collarbone, she found a home more welcoming than any place she was supposed to call it. 

“Oh,” Mikaela breathed, the sound like music. “Hi,” 

Sable pulled away, hands gripping her shoulders like she’d die if she didn’t. 

“You’ve been gone,” Tears. “You disappeared and– and I– I was looking for you, oh, I’ve been looking for you forever, Mikaela–” 

Mikaela’s brow furrowed. “What– what do you mean forever ..?” 

“Since Halloween! You– you were performing and… oh, don’t you remember ?” Sable’s eyes searched hers for recognition, pleading, wanting. Sad. “I was all alone..”

Mikaela looked at the floor, puzzled,

 Lost.

 “But.. that can’t be. I was just there,” She gestured to the eerie, decrepit woods and blazing fire. “I just got here.”  

“It’s November twenty-fifth,” 

“Oh,” 

“Mikaela,” Sable pleaded, kneeling before her as she slumped down, defeated, on the log before the fire. “Mikaela you wouldn’t have believed it, I visited this girl named Ellen and she said there was a door in the basement of the theatre and her brothers went missing and it was just as you described with the– the fog and– and when I went there I knew you’d be there– like you said, in your story, about the fog and oh, god, it was everywhere down this staircase and I went down and now you’re here,” she choked, smiling through the hysteria. “You’re here and I’m with you,” 

Sable looked up at her, haloed by the seraphic orange, taking note of the way her hair looked as it caught the light, how her eyes reflected the wavering flames, the smooth slope of her nose in the deep shadows. Tracing the lines of her hand tattoos with her shaking fingers as she memorialized the way her flesh felt, real under her own. 

Mikaela wavered. 

“You came here,” She exhaled. Fearful. 

“For you,” 

“But– but your parents, your future– your life –” 

“You are my future,” she confessed, “every day without you was like suffocating . Like dying,” Her palms gripped Mikaela’s knees. “I couldn’t go on without you.” 

They both went silent. The warmth of the fire was becoming too much, and Sable had begun to sweat. Mikaela held her hand but didn’t meet her eyes. Those freckled shoulders were slumped. A wilted moonflower on the windowsill. 

“What if you’ve killed yourself by coming here?” She whispered, staring out into the sprawling trees. Neverending. 

Sable brushed her thumb along her knuckles and offered a weary smile. 

“You know I’d come anyway.” 

She heard her laugh. 

Just lightly, melancholically under her breath, 

And her eyes relaxed into hers, azure melting into peridot, 

Soothing, 

Angelic, 

Loving, 

Finding all she’d ever longed for in them, 

Until the fog rolled in.

And that’s how it went the first time. 

And similarly, every time after that. And the next. 

The game would end. They would be sent back here. 

To meet again, always for the first time in this world. 

Always oblivious. 

Yet it was never quite the same. 

The entity would change the story slightly, in small ways;

Maybe instead of sadness, passion would blossom. 

Or maybe rather than love, there would lie loathing. 

It went on like this for longer than they could ever know.

Longer than they would be allowed to know. 

Time passed them by without thought and took over all they held dear, 

like ivy creeping up the side of an abandoned house, 

It took. 

More flowers wilted, 

More people disappeared,

More bedrooms were left to collect dust. 

All that remained of their memory in Greenville lay in missing posters swaying side by side in the breeze, 

left to wither away on the same bulletin board, 

Forgotten. 

Forever intertwined. 

[mrxcreepypastamadness]

Hellish Hollows (Overworld)

Song: Cosmic Awareness

Character Cover: VirusVirdem

Lore: "You have been launched into the deepest depths of the post apocalyptic world, and find yourself at the vehicular combat demolition."

"Time for some mayhem!"

"The city itself seems abandoned, but you can feel the presence of another."

VirusVirdem: 🎵Jump up, make your life worth it. In here, you're good as dead! Oh!🎵

Boyfriend: 🎵*Sings*🎵

VirusVirdem: 🎵If you think you're gettin' out of here, you're crazy cuz you're in for the ride! Don't fall down and lose your head.🎵

Boyfriend: 🎵*Sings again*🎵

VirusVirdem: 🎵I see you've got your game on! Now aren't we just having such fun?🎵

Boyfriend: 🎵*Sings*🎵

VirusVirdem: 🎵What a shame this cannot last forever pal! Cuz you're already dead by my RATIONALE!🎵

Boyfriend: 🎵*Sings again*🎵

VirusVirdem: 🎵Shall we proceed with the game? I insist, it won't be deadly! It's only as hard as you make it for me, it's easy if you just play along with me!🎵

Boyfriend: 🎵*Continued singing*🎵

VirusVirdem: 🎵You're before the court, so make your case known! Lest you wish your fate to be cemented into stone! Doth thou sing in hopes of reaching beyond me? Is hell all you see, deep within my eyes? Lies?🎵

*Flashback transition (To Sugar Rush World)*

Vanellope: 🎵Adventure waits, beyond the pearly gate! So let us go far beyond and see what lies in your fate!🎵

Boyfriend: 🎵*Sings*🎵

Vanellope: 🎵Questions burn deep in, in your dead mind, am I animated? Or am I blind?🎵

Boyfriend: 🎵*Sings again*🎵

Vanellope: 🎵It's just me, Vanellope pal! But I think we know there's something deeper, looking at me, the grim reaper!🎵

*Vanellope's eyes turn black*

Fake Vanellope: 🎵But if you're so sure that you wish to proceed this way, I can't tell you, pal, but I can inform you, there's only dismay!🎵

Boyfriend: 🎵*Sings*🎵

*Vanellope's outfit darkens, so is the background*

Death Racer: 🎵Think you're high and mighty? Then come and show me just what you got!🎵

Boyfriend: 🎵*Sings again*🎵

*Her true form reveals as fire rises from the background*

VirusVirdem: 🎵Stand against me with all your power and we deul! You think we're on equal ground? Oh, fool...🎵

*Transitions changes back to Twisted Metal post apocalyptic city background but this time the night sky itself has a black hole*

VirusVirdem: 🎵Step down, don't think you'll make it! You've been so deeply mislead!🎵

Boyfriend: 🎵*Sings*🎵

VirusVirdem: 🎵Don't you think you're leaving, best make amends in here, you won't see day light, best to succumb to dread🎵

Boyfriend: 🎵*Sings again*🎵

VirusVirdem: 🎵Space, time, it's all in my hand! Won't you stay? Your life won't be as bland!🎵

Boyfriend: 🎵*Sings*🎵

VirusVirdem: 🎵Watch the floodgates close, and watch me shut the valves, on your mind, you are mine, don't lose your morale!🎵

Boyfriend: 🎵*Sings again*🎵

VirusVirdem: 🎵Here I remain aware, here I can tell my story from far out there! Be yond the star-filled void! A hate-filled legacy is not what I wish to leave down in this deep. I give a sanctuary to thee! Sing the sin away, and join in wretched prayer! Here I'm the savior, I'm the fox and you're the hare!🎵

Boyfriend: 🎵*Continued singing*🎵

VirusVirdem: 🎵Now that you have spoken, our diction shall be made. Innocent or guilty, you are here to stay. So let us make this game the best it can be, don't you see? You're stuck here with me for eternity! Oh~ Fall.🎵

Boyfriend: 🎵*Sings*🎵

Song Based By:

COSMIC AWARENESS WITH LYRICS! | MARIO'S MADNESS WITH LYRICS

Original Video: AbysmalCha0s

[veritas-scribblings]

sweat - @marauders-rarepair-fics - words: 1,094

[For @crimsonlovebartylus: their rosebones post with those pictures popped up on my feed and I felt inspired and this came from it]

There’s part of Evan that saw this coming. That has long known he would eventually malfunction in some sort of way. When you’re damaged, malfunctioning is inevitable. It is unavoidable. As inevitable and unavoidable as aging. As loss. As betrayal. As pain. As death.

There’s also part of Evan, though, that had suspected (or, perhaps, even hoped) he was so far beyond irreparably damaged that this strange affliction would never grace him. That he would never have to worry about things such as romantic attraction and love. All of those fluffy, sunshine-and-rainbows feelings that are solely reserved for lovers of fairy tales and romance novels, and idealistic teenage girls, the people who have never been touched by the cold, sharp blade of reality like Evan has.

He doesn’t know what to do with those sort of feelings. He doesn’t know what to do with feelings. He so rarely has them.

Unfortunately, though, here Evan is trapped in this potentially one-sided tug of war with this boy (this boy, Salazar, this boy with his tattoos and his piercings and his taunting smile that makes something inside Evan grow and grow and grow). And Evan just doesn’t know how to respond. How to handle it.

Beyond throwing fists and throwing spells and and drinking like a fish and fucking his way out of the emotions and into oblivion.

And so this is what he does.

See, Evan is no stranger to sex. Sex is familiar territory. It was familiar territory before he should have been doing it, before he should have even known what it was all about. It’s physical. It’s intimate. It’s ‘chasing his release’. It’s ‘feeling something and knowing he’s alive’. It’s quick. It’s ‘in and out and be done with it’. No revisits, no repeats.

Maybe, actually, that’s where Evan went wrong. There were revisits and repeats. He broke his cardinal rule.

Evan drains his glass and stares across the room. The music playing is some slightly hyper muggle nonsense that has everyone in the room dancing like raucous nymphs. The alcohol flows freely as Barty handled the acquisition of it while Regulus bank rolled him. They’ve set up this security charm of sorts to protect the room, Regulus and Barty. They haven’t gone into the specifics, but apparently there’s a spell that they’ve called the ‘Blood Eagle’.

Dorcas has run off to ensure that they’re not actually intending on eviscerating any professor or caretaker who tries to catch them in-party.

And there, across the room where Evan stares, is that boy. Salazar, that boy. That Edgar Bones. With his eye liner and his piercings and the tattoos he has hidden that Evan found and revealed and tasted. That boy and the ghost of his skin against Evan’s that Evan recalls, feels, even now.

That makes him go warm inside, so warm he thinks he might burn up.

Fuck. Fuck it all to hell.

Evan wants to climb into bed and hide from the world. He wants Barty and Regulus to hold him, the way they always insist on holding him, and to burrow himself into his little cocoon of a family and never emerge. See, Evan knows love. He has love, the eternal and unconditional sort. He just doesn’t know the conventional kind of love that's supposedly ‘written in the stars’. The mythical kind offset from reality. The ‘go grey, grow old together’ kind of love that doesn’t fucking exist.

Fuck that kind of love. Fuck all and sundry. Evan wants nothing to do with it.

‘Did you have fun?’

Evan practically jumps out of his skin. His first instinct is to punch the source of the sound. And he tries to, only Edgar is quick and dodges him, because of course the bastard saw it coming.

Evan scowls. He would go in for another punch—he wants to, he thinks that Edgar would wear the bruises and blood quite nicely—only Edgar is smirking at him and it's almost menacing. So nasty for a Hufflepuff, Evan remembers saying to him.

I’m patient. Dedicated. Hard-working. Loyal, Edgar had said. There’s nothing about needing to have all the traits.

Edgar’s stare is hard and penetrating. He leans against the wall next to Evan, so close that Evan can feel his warmth and see the bird tattoo peaking out beneath his partially-unbuttoned shirt.

‘Jealous, Bones,’ Evan says.

Edgar frowns. His intense stare is gone. ‘Yes,’ he says. ’Terribly jealous. But that was your intention, wasn’t it?’

Of course. Of course Edgar saw him leave with that Ravenclaw girl. Evan had wanted him to see. He’d wanted him to know what they were going to do, what they eventually did do. He’d wanted it to chase Edgar away, to scream at Edgar: I am not built for this game. I am damaged.

So why does Evan feel? Like there’s something growing in his chest he can’t quite identify and name. It makes his heat race. It makes him feel warm. It stifles his breath in his chest.

And he doesn’t fucking know why.

Edgar passes him a glass of what looks like vodka mixed with some form of juice. ‘Hi,’ he says with a small smile, ‘how are you doing?’ When Evan just stares blankly at him, Edgar smiles a bit wider. ‘It’s called conversation, Rosier. See, I can be friendly.’

‘You’re in my space,’ is all Evan says in return.

Edgar laughs, taking a sip from his own glass, and gestures for Evan to drink. ‘You’ve been avoiding me. Don’t give me that look. You have. And you’ve been eye-fucking me across the room all night. And then you left with Delia, so apparently you’re also fucking-fucking with me. Did she do it for you, Rosier? Or can I do it for you.’

And there it is again. The warmth that floods Evan. The way his heart threatens to beat out of his chest. The way his breath stops short in his throat. The slightly dizzy, sick feeling he can’t explain away as he hasn’t had enough to drink to cause such an affliction.

Evan just doesn’t understand.

He glances over to where Barty and Regulus are laying on the couches by the fireplace. Come save me, he wants to say, because he’s weak. Sweet Cierce, is Evan weak and utterly ruined. But they won’t come and save him. They’re so used to him sneaking off for a quick shag that they generally just leave him to it.

They don’t know about this boy who is trying to destroy Evan from the inside out.