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maehemthemisfit · 2 years

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𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐘 𝐇𝐀𝐕𝐄 𝐀 𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐄

ask — Can I ask you that the reader 💋 them while they are 😥 and 💙 in order to 😇 them, (I really hope this makes sense) Characters: Scaramouche & Xiao (This is my first time requesting something, hopefully I did it right ☠️) - requested by @oddshroom

a/n — this took me so unbelievably long to write but I'm working on my emoji asks now! okay so apparently I have no self control when it comes to writing scara so this ended up being 3k instead of 500≤1k so I'm making this separate from the xiao's. also dw love, you did it absolutely right so it was clear and concise <3

pairing — [ scaramouche x gn!reader + 💋 kissing them while they're 😥 having a nightmare and 💙 playing with their hair in order to 😇 comfort them]

edited by: my homegirl @xiao6ao

masterlist / xiao post / emoji prompt list

Since when was the melody of screams this unpleasant? Or perhaps, maybe it was never a sweet tune to begin with.

The crackling of fire howled and filled his ears, yet he watched silently as the flames ate away at the wooden structure, devouring the joyous memories he created there. Ashes sprinkled the blazing air, scurrying around like fire flies and filling his lungs.

His breathing was shallow, huffs of air spilling from his chest and reminding him of how human he seemed. But he could never be human, not when his chest was but a hollow cavern, overflowing with nothing but broken dreams and empty promises. His fingers trembled beside him, and subconsciously, he backed away from the dazzling light.

Why was he afraid? How could he be afraid? After all, he was the one who’d started the fire.

"N-No..." Scaramouche whispered, his eyes widened in disbelief as he took in the scene before him. "This... this already happened. Why am I seeing this again?" He looked to his palms— a desperate attempt at gathering his sense of self— but upon seeing his old attire, he found himself inarticulate.

This can't be. It was like he was back to being—

"Kunikuzushi," That voice... that was- "Why did you do this?" The child cried, clutching a familiar doll to his chest. It was threaded with such precision and care, casting in his mind a fond memory of the weeks he spent learning how to sew such a thing with his past friend.

Then the sight of the child’s charred skin hit him, and the endearing thought was discarded. He looked just as he did so long ago— sick, fragile.

But his eyes, oh his eyes told another story.

Scaramouche remembered his eyes, always full of wonder and curiosity, much like his own when he was just a fledgling. Those eyes that would beam up at him as the child tugged him away to a new discovery. Those eyes that would melt close as a smile formed on the child's lips. Those eyes, that were now boring holes into his own, absent of life and that childlike glee he was once accustomed to. Those eyes that were now swirling with fear, fear that was now directed at him.

"I didn't—!!" Scaramouche found himself choking, misery seeping into the depths of his chest and pouring out into his voice. He felt utterly nauseous at the sight before him, heaving breaths of uncertainty as hot tears began to spill from his indigo hues.

Shakily, he brought a hand to his mouth, searching for the words he wanted to say. "I didn't mean to... you- you broke your promise..."

The child took a step back, "Promise? What promise?" The puppet’s brows furrowed at the confusion on the child’s face, the air getting all the more jeering— threatening to strangle him— the longer they spoke.

"You said we were family. You said you would never abandon me," Scaramouche recalled. Abandon. Just the word sizzled and left a bitter taste on his tongue.

It wasn't fair, it wasn't fair at all.

“I didn’t abandon you,” the boy managed to retort, his voice scarcely a rasp. “I died!” He choked on a fit of coughs as he succumbed to the illness both his parents fell to.

Abandon… die…

Those were two completely different words, were they not? Yet, somehow, the discarded creation had found the two synonymous. The concept of death was still foreign to him all those years ago, and the timing was impeccable, as if someone were pulling the strings to all his misfortune. One betrayal after another. It was a deadly recipe of disaster that bubbled over into impulsive decisions and, finally, the roaring flames before him.

And now, he could only witness this village burn all over again— brick by brick, plank by plank— and watch the terror in the eyes of the one he called his friend, of the people he held close to where his heart should be, resurface from ashes long gone.

Damn it. It's not fair. It's not fair at all.

Another staggering step, and the flames began clawing at the child’s leg, searing deeper into his already charred skin. "Wait! Please!" Scaramouche shouted, lunging forward towards the kid now set ablaze and embraced in the wild, untamed fire. “Don’t leave me—" No, not “—again.”

But it was all in vain. He pleaded. He cried. He called, yet no one came.

His fingers crossed the child's, the doll slipping from the child's grasp and into the desperate puppet's hands. And without skipping a beat, the child burst into cinders before his eyes.

The ground kissed his knees as he collapsed, trembling hands digging into the veil that did little to shield him from the raging light. Within seconds, it was torn to shreds and soaked in the tears that he bled.

He wept, voice barely above a whisper. "Why couldn't it have been me…" Those tears, those pathetic emotions he harbored, why couldn't they stop? Why did it hurt so bad? Why did everyone leave him?

A dry, forced chuckle passed his lips that were drenched with the downpour from his eyes. He wiped them.

"Maybe I am just some faulty being." He looked up at the stars that watched in silence above him, ignoring his pleas for help. Gods… humans… even the stars were nothing but lies.

It was only then that a sensation ran down his neck, causing him to flinch from the sudden sense of touch. He whimpered despite trying his best not to, yet what he felt wasn't in the slightest unpleasant.

He leaned into it, eyes growing heavy with whatever was circling his skin, the pain that drenched him before growing numb as the flow of his tears drew softly to a stop. He felt small, yet safe under this eerie yet familiar touch, like an angel was embracing him and shielding him away from the tragedies that plagued the world.

A trickle of hope poured into him, flooding a soothing warmth through the chest that had been poisoned by a twisting ache. His fist unraveled the tattered veil, his hands now clinging onto something more plush and soft, though he couldn't see.

It told him he was fine. He was safe. He was sound.

Sound?

The air caught his mind, now devoid of the screams that smothered him just moments before. Even the crazed laments of the fire ceased, replaced by the quiet pitter patter of falling droplets— none of which he felt.

What he did feel was something soft showering his face, warm and featherlike, and another delicate touch swaying back and forth over his cheek, creating a peaceful harmony within his settling mind.

Despite the heaviness in his limbs, he pulled himself closer, his legs rubbing against silky fabric instead of the ashened ground of what had once been his home. His arms drew himself closer against whatever was bringing him comfort, the sound of something beating surprisingly washing away the rest of his worries. He drifted far away from the panic that once overcame him, the raging storm in his head now reduced to calm waves of water, carrying him safely back to reality into the arms of an angel.

His eyes, tired and spent, fought to open. His vision made out from blurring colors the sight of another person laying beside him. They leaned into him, and he felt the same featherlike sensation on his forehead. A voice he recognized— he had yet to decipher the words— filled his ears.

It was…

Before his eyes could fully adjust, he was already curling against your chest, fingers softly grabbing your shirt and tugging like his life depended on it. In an instant, the world came rushing in, his lungs breathing in the calming air of the small apartment you shared.

He was fine. He was safe. He was with you.

He called your name, his voice cracking as a groan slipped past him, muffled by his face pressing into you. Memories of his nightmare crashed back in restless waves, threatening to drown him once again. He coughed, attempting to speak through labored breaths.

"I s-saw… my, I-'' Scaramouche hiccuped, his body starting to shake like the harsh winters of Snezhnaya was biting through his porcelain skin.

“Shhh, shhh, it’s okay, take your time.” You were quick to silence him, whispering affirmations in the mist of night for only his ears to hear. He clutched onto you tighter. “It’s okay love, I’m here.”

After the countless years of suffering the puppet endured, he wasn’t fond of being touched by any living being— at least, not after all the torturous poking and prodding he was subjected to during Dottore’s experiments, whilst promises of “making him stronger” or “unlocking his true divinity” fell on deaf ears as he withered in pain.

But you? He couldn’t help but melt under your irenic touch, something that was foreign to him for decades. It took awhile for him to adjust to your displays of affection, but eventually your arms became his new safe haven, something that was all apparent now as you rubbed gentle strokes against his back, the sobs that were born from his horrid dream now dying down to soft sniffles and hums.

The moon glowed in all its glory in the blanket of night, illuminating the two lovers cuddled closely together like birds in a nest. Its silver glow became sparkles in the stray tears that spilled over his cheeks, your hands calmly wiping them as they fell. He came to realize over some time that the featherlike touches he felt prior were you pressing kisses to his face.

The moon came and fled as the sun put it to rest, painting the darkened skies in shades of blue and red. Its rays glimmered, peaking through the window and shedding its warmth on the both of you. By then, the wandering puppet’s tear stained cheeks were dried, his breathing leveled, and eyes half lidded, swirling with bouts of serenity.

Your hand was idly playing with his hair, gently combing through and dividing pieces that fell across his face. A comfortable silence filled the air, only penetrated by the whisper that flew past your lover’s lips, calling your name. You hummed as his hand slowly crept from under the covers, reaching out to grab yours from his strands and bringing it to his chest. His warm breath tickled your skin when he sighed, the feeling being overthrown when his lips kissed the back of your palm, lingering for nearly a minute.

“Do you…” He spoke softly, still firmly holding onto you, yet his voice sounded far off, eyes distant and hazy. “Do you think I’m evil?”

The question dripped from his lips like dew to a leaf, dropping into your ears for your brain to soak it in. Melancholy sprouted from it, growing vines that entangled your heart.

The word evil ran through your head, such a harsh term to describe someone, you scrutinized. Could you really compare the word to the former harbinger lying across from you? Perhaps his past actions, but…

Do evil people cry genuine tears? Do evil people feel remorse for their wicked deeds? What truly defines evil anyway?

The fluttering of wings fanned your clouded thoughts, your answer becoming clear along with the sound of birds chirping. You tugged at the vines clenching your heart, ripping them with ease as you looked at the man in question.

“Doing good things doesn’t make you a good person,” you imparted, staring honestly into his alluring eyes. He listened intently as you spoke, hanging off of every word like a puppet to a string. “And doing bad things doesn’t make you a bad person either.”

The foggy look in his eyes finally cleared.

“I think you experienced the worst parts of the world before you could understand the beauty of it, which led to your notorious doings.” You adjusted your hand to hold his, and he gave you a gentle squeeze as your thumb caressed circles into his. “But if we look back to your ‘previous incarnation’ without your memories, or your titles before Balladeer, would you call them evil as well? Would the people who knew you then describe you in such a way?”

The question floated in the air. A quizzical frown assuming the puppet’s features. For a second, he was back in his dream again— images of fire and ash tainting his mind. He remembered those eyes that were swirling with fear, anxiety threatening to crawl up his spine again.

He was fine. He was safe. He was…

“I didn’t abandon you,” The child's voice played back in his head, oddly sounding more soft compared to the voice he heard in his dream. Another recollection filled his thoughts— it was the sight of the child pulling him eagerly, a wide grin adorning his chubby cheeks, a giggle followed by his own filling the air as he allowed the kid to guide him to some growing lavender melons.

"I- I can't reach it. Awhh," The child pouted, looking away from the tree dejectedly.

"They are pretty high up," Scara- no, Kunikuzushi observed, bringing a hand to his chin. "You'll be able to reach them if I give you a lift though."

"Really? Oh thank you, thank you, thank you! You're really the best ya know, and d-don't forget it either!" The child cheered, jumping up and down in his small burst of excitement before calming down. He tired easily, no matter what he did.

"I'm the best? But I'm just a mere—"

The small mortal coughed weakly, balling his fist right after and shouting a heartfelt declaration. "Puppet this, puppet that. You're a good person and you're a good friend. There's no if, ands, or buts about it,"

He couldn't help but reciprocate the child's smile.

"I- I guess you have a point," Kunikuzushi hummed, his face blooming a pretty pink as he tried to hide under his veil. "You know… you sound a lot like an old friend of mine.”

The memory faded as quick as it came, his shoulders now relaxed and expression thoughtful. You assumed he reached the same answer as you.

They wouldn't call him evil. Never in a million years.

“I couldn’t either," You answered his thoughts, bringing your hand back to card through his hair. "Which is why I don't think you're the monster you make yourself out to be."

He wanted to laugh, but he found himself without a voice. All those questions he aimlessly sought answers to. He’d even asked the God of Wisdom the same thing, yet her answer was quite different from yours. But could he really take your words to heart— or hold it above the words of a god? Would her answer change if he asked her again? Would your answer change if he wronged you?

He was fine. He was safe. He was good.

The sounds of rain dwindled as the critters of light rustled away, chirping and hollering to the sun’s presence. By now, its light blanketed you both, whisking off the drowsiness as you rubbed your eyes. You were in the midst of calling your lover’s name when his fingers wrapped around your leg, pulling it over his hip to bring you close once again.

He cupped your face, your eyes instinctively closing as his lips embraced yours, the warmth of his touch enough to rival the sun and the shine of the moon. No celestial body could reap what the two of you had sown beautifully together.

You held his past, present, and future, carried his vices and virtues, wiped his tears and tore down his walls even when he built them up too high.

You stayed, even when he couldn't give you his heart.

He was enough, you reminded him proudly each day. He was safe. He was fine. He was loved.

"I love you," Scaramouche found himself mumbling against your lips, breathing out a content sigh when the two of you finally parted.

It was the first time he initiated such a declaration, and while he'd never admit how much it affected him, the shy smile carved into his face spoke it well enough. His passionate gaze lit a thousand flames in your soul and it was your turn to fall into the rabbit hole of his beauty.

With another quick kiss, you touched your foreheads together, your voice a lullaby to his ears as you chimed the words that always made him feel something skip a beat in his chest.

"I love every part of you, and never forget that," you huffed, feigning a pouty expression to entice a smile— which he effortlessly gave.

"Don't worry, I won't," he laughed heartily this time, making an effort to find your hand and intertwining your pinkies. He brought them to his chin, pecking the side of your hand once more. "I promise."

TAGLIST — @sonder-paradise @96jnie @scaramouchenumber1fan @linn-a-a @wisteriaflowersss @ineriris @yesntforno @serramii @shadowmist0706 @jmgrule @imeanwatever @c00kie-cat @xtodorokismistressx @ieathairs @endlessmari @strawberryclumsy @serenity-ren-bliss

reblogs appreciated (⁠っ⁠.⁠❛⁠ ⁠ᴗ⁠ ⁠❛⁠.⁠)⁠っ

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feelmyskinonyourskin · 1 year

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It's Hard to Dance With the Devil on Your Back [Soulmates AU]

Pairing: Matt Murdock x Reader

Trope de Sept Masterlist | Main Masterlist

Soulmates AU Alternate Universe 1. A story set in a world where everyone has a soulmate, and something to indicate to them who their soulmate is and when they meet them. "You live in a world where soulmates are connected by their injuries - a new scar appearing wherever your soulmate has one. So why is your soulmate so hell-bent on getting injured?."

Warnings: No use of Y/N. Reader pronouns/gender not mentioned. Description of blood, implied that the reader was getting mugged just before the story starts.

A/N: So in this AU, you and your soulmate share scars. With Matty, we know it's a lot. I tried to be as vague as possible about how the scars show up on the reader's skin in order to be inclusive, but if you have any suggestions for edits of how I could better describe things to make sure I'm being inclusive for readers of all skin types/tones, please DM me! I'm totally open to that feedback and making those changes!

WC: 550

*I never give permission for my fics, manips, or any other original creation I post on this site to be copied, posted elsewhere, translated, or fed into any AI program. The only platform I currently post anything on is Tumblr. Thanks!*

There was blood on your hands. Crimson and sticky; and fortunately (or unfortunately, you weren't sure which) not yours.

Your savior hunched over, a shadow in the already dark alleyway, gripping onto his side as the wound you were trying to help him suture gushed all over your hands.

Three unconscious bodies were around you; would-be muggers beat to a pulp with acrobatic-like precision. He saved at least your wallet and your sense of safety in this city, if not your life.

You’d heard of his reputation around town – The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen – and now were face to face with the man himself.

“Come with me, my place isn’t far.” you offered. It was the least you could do.

He was too woozy and injured to resist, using your body as a makeshift crutch as he hobbled down the street beside you.

Manhattan rent is stupid expensive, so you shuffled around him in your miniscule bathroom while he sat on the lip of your bathtub, still breathing heavily. You mentally cursed yourself for not having a better stocked first aid kit.

Reluctantly, he let you remove the mask. His hazel eyes darted at nothing as you drank in the identity of your rescuer.

You had a million questions, mostly about how a blind man spends his nights expertly beating up criminals, but you saved them for later, too preoccupied with the gash crossing his left ribs.

“Your soulmate is gonna have a hell of a time with this one.” you commented as you poked and prodded at the wound, pushing aside the shredded black fabric still covering most of his torso.

“My soulmate is probably used to it by now.” he replied, removing the useless shirt so you could work on his injury, exposing his entire torso to you.

A flash of heat washed over your whole body at the sight before you and the realization it brought on, starting at your head and finishing at your feet like a bathtub draining quickly.

His body was littered with the evidence of what he does every night, what he’s been doing for years. You had a good idea of when he started.

“What? What is it?” he asked, head tilting in concern, reacting to a gasp you hadn’t realized escaped you.

You took his hand, guiding it under the fabric of your shirt and traced his fingers along the skin of your stomach. The scar had faded over the years, but still remained raised and bumpy. It appeared there several years ago.

He licked at his pouty lips, brows furrowed as he ran his calloused fingers over your flesh.

You guided his touch to another, across your collarbone, still as red and jagged as the day it appeared.

And then he knew.

“You – you’re my…”

“Yeah.”

There was so much he wanted to explain to you, but he knew there would be plenty of time. Instead, he pointed to his left knee, curious about what was on his skin under the dark fabric of his pants. You chuckled.

“I fell off my bike when I was nine. Guess it’s not as exciting as the stories you can tell about yours.”

“No, but I’d like to tell them to you, if you'd let me.”

“Yes, I’d like that very much.”

#daredevil #matt murdock #matt murdock x reader #charlie cox #nmcu fic #mcu fic #daredevil fic #matt murdock x you #marvel daredevil #daredevil imagine #soulmate au #tropes de sept #trope

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ialwaysknewyouwerepunk · 9 months

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queer signalling: louis and harry living their beautiful queer lives, collected by me

since we must take note of our fellow queers when they signal that they are very much one of us, despite being closeted. since i've had a very very queer few years thanks to them, thanks to their signalling, thanks to them being brave.

(!! this list isn't exhaustive, and if i've forgotten your favorite, by all means let me know. there's always room for another edition. it's been a while since i made a compilation and felt there was a need of a new one on my blog. this one goes a few years back, since my last one dates from 2021 :'o. so yeah. here we go.)

harry in my policeman, playing a closeted queer man, based on the book that's long been one of his favorites. lauded by the director and co-stars for how well he portrayed this character, how well he understood.

harry wearing a green flower on his chest for the mp premiere, placing himself (once again) in the same line of history as oscar wilde.

louis's green flowers on his initial 28clothing jersey at the first afhf, which includes bonus roses and 28s all around

the entire late night talking mv bc!!!!!

louis's rainbow stage lights during sibwawc. he really did that. every single night.

the entire dazed magazine happening. “I’ve always tried to compartmentalise my personal life and my working life,” he explains. / “I have unlocked an ability to be myself completely, unapologetically,” he says with conviction." / “I think through my own sense of self and personal journey, I am realising that happiness isn’t this kind of end state.”

louis's gay exit songs: most notably 'ever fallen in love (with someone you shouldn't've)'

harry flirting with stanley tucci

louis and his gay ass tank tops !!! we must point it out !!!!!!

all along

harry kissing a pride flag during harry's house ono in nyc

rainbow flare during the btm mv

harry being gifted a mask of his own face at munich n2, which prompted him to say that he feels like he's wearing a mask sometimes

28 in a triangle for 28clothing!!!!!!!!

kit connor soft launching 28 clothing. a young actor starring in a queer coming-of-age series, who was forced to come out after being accused of queerbaiting. he was the first one, besides louis, to wear 28clothing

harry's grammy's speech "people like me" (which ppl sadly misunderstood), echoing what he's been saying on tour for years. this doesn't happen to people like him. if they only knew, right?

harry's freddie-inspired outfit for the grammy carpet (which also brought back his theme for clown/jester fits, like harryween 2021 n2. wonder why)

louis's merch graphic where a boy is trying to smash a glass ceiling

harry posing for david hockney, actual living legend, gay artist of the ages. "Styles seems to know how lucky he is, adding, with a tinge of disbelief: “I’m in awe of the man with enough one-liners for a lifetime.” As to what those one-liners might be? Styles and Hockney’s mutual silence on that question suggests that what happens in the studio, stays in the studio."

louis having suspicious visuals during back to you, the only visuals of that type on tour

harry's 2022 harryween outfit: dressed as danny (literally. he did that. he went grease on us.) but wearing sandy's jacket

louis at barricade aka held safely in the arms of strong security personnel

harry singing man, i feel like a woman and still the one with shania twain. while wearing a rainbow discoball jumpsuit (parallel with kacey musgraves wearing a rainbow dress to sing it with him years ago.)

louis's gay ass merch for the away from home festival

harry dressed in nina ricci by harris reed, an explicitly gender-fluid line. "At 18 I found myself living in london creating ruffle blouses, corsets, fabric flowers and flares from my kitchen floor (...). My creations at the time were met with nothing but criticism for being “too feminine” or “costume”, teachers said I should focus on “menswear” or “womenswear”. l remember it really wasn’t until I started dressing for myself and who I was that it all clicked. @harrystyles was my first ever client who embraced the fun, fluid and expressive clothing I was creating."

continuous bluegreening. to name a few: harry's werchter fit, all this time lights, satellite caps in two colors only, louis's smiley flickering bluegreen on tour in 2022, the james cordon shit, louis in uncasville. enjoy this post here

harry's snl shoot unseens: him as ariel

louis out in amsterdam at a gay bar

harry going to the women's only swimming pond (on a day it was open for men, but this is important to me okay)

harry's use of orchids in his visuals during 'she' during love on tour '23

the 'hairy mermaid' tour visuals

harry as a mermaid during the mfasr mv. as a supreme physical manifestation of harry as the mermaid he truly is inside. but in his true form he gets chopped up and consumed. literally

as it was mv and its parallels with the matrix, hints to harry as the woman with the red dress.

louis jumping up on barricade against the one spot where a pride flag was draped over it

oh yeah that exact same thing happened in 2022 too

harry forming a skirt with a pride flag in brasil after his pants ripped

that gay ass denim getup with the fur collar?? while wearing the fucking peace ring????

harry and phoebe breaking gender norms in the tpwk mv dance. no i'm not over it yet shut up

louis wearing a basquiat t-shirt, another famously queer artist joining the ranks

harry bought an actual genuine basquiat. flex

harry dressed in skirts for gucci

"happy pride! happy pride! 'tis the season! can you tell i'm relaxed?"

"isn't all of this sparkly bi music?"

satellite mv rainbow planet tshirt

louis's bigger than me promo where he's literally george michael like??? IM SORRY???????

harry kissing lewis capaldi at the brits

harry kissing nick kroll at the dwd premiere. lol

and... harry as friend of D O R O T H Y. sang over the rainbow. we all cried. especially me at this clip of harry glancing in relief at his band after over the rainbow.

#queer signalling #my posts #long post #anyways............. hmu if you have more bc i know there's more that i've forgotten but i didn't want to wait #but these were my personal highlights #this is for me more than anyone i know. i don't really know if anyone's really waiting on this #but i personally have been feeling like i gloss over a lot #and forget a lot #and minimise a lot for fear of making a big thing out of something small #but... then i make big things into something small.#which i hate #going through my archive just shows how fast an event passes by and i just stopped talking about it #ive complained about this many a time i know #anygays #for whoever wants to come scream with me <3 #also i have left out some events that were too easily deniable and i didn't want to clutter the post #since what's actual tangibly real and straight from them is so insane already #also that gif is how i feel rn.#how i often feel tbh #i want to be braver again

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see-arcane · 9 months

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Was Frankenstein Not the Monster? PILOT

A fire of too many colors swallows a manor in the countryside and descends into a pit.

An occult detective's prying leads to revelations far more volatile than the mere aftermath of a nightmare.

Men and monsters circle at the edge of a legend that should have died in the cold almost 100 years ago.

And in the dark beyond that edge, strange Creatures watch and work and wait.

…Such is the stage set for a new piece under the working title of Was Frankenstein Not the Monster? I make no promises—certainly none the size of Barking Harker—but at the moment, this project has been eating up much of the time I’ve spent while juggling the publication of The Vampyres. As it stands, I think I might be making another book.

If you’re interested, the preview is below the cut, but also available here and through a link in my website, here.

Was Frankenstein Not the Monster?

C.R. Kane

Every muscle palpitates, every nerve goes tense—then the body rises from the ground, not slowly, limb by limb, but thrown straight up from the earth all at once. He did not yet look alive, but like someone who was now dying. Still pale and stiff, he stands dumbstruck at being thrust back into the world. But no sound comes from his closed mouth; his voice and tongue are only allowed to answer.

—Scene of a necromantic conjuring by Erichtho, as depicted in Lucan’s Pharsalia.

“I see by your eagerness and the wonder and hope which your eyes express, my friend, that you expect to be informed of the secret with which I am acquainted; that cannot be; listen patiently until the end of my story, and you will easily perceive why I am reserved upon the subject. I will not lead you on, unguarded and ardent as I then was, to your destruction and infallible misery.”

—Victor Frankenstein, as penned by Capt. Robert Walton, edited and distributed by M. Wulstan, in the epistolatory document referred to alternately as The Legend of Frankenstein, ‘The Walton Letters,’ or, ‘Lament of the Modern Prometheus.’

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS! THE MANMADE WRETCH!

WHO IS THE MONSTER?

THE HORROR, THE HUBRIS, THE HAVOC!

ALL COME TO ELECTRIFYING LIFE IN…

THE NIGHTMARE OF DR. FRANKENSTEIN!

Based on the lauded literary terror penned by the late Robert Walton and brought to public light by M. Wulfstan, The Legend of Frankenstein.

The Apollo Crest Opera House presents the most harrowing take on the mad doctor and his marvel of creation to date.

Featuring up-to-date theatrical effects and the most stunning visuals ever seen on the stage, this is a show to whiten the locks and deliver endless shocks.

Come to GASP, to WEEP, to SWOON, and above all, ladies and gentlemen, to PONDER the century-old query beneath the fear in this tale of a creature crafted from the dead and the proud madman who dragged it into the world!

When the passerby corrects you, claiming the scientist is Frankenstein rather than the monster, remember to ask in turn:

WAS FRANKENSTEIN NOT THE MONSTER?

The Inferno of Erichtho

While Dyson’s was one of many heads turned by the events surrounding the housefire of Dr. Richard Geber, he was one of few interested parties who arranged a stay in Surrey’s countryside to ogle the site in person. The other who rode with him was, stunningly, Ambrose, one of his oldest friends and the staunchest recluse he had ever known. Dyson had suggested they try to wheedle Cotgrave, Phillips, and Salisbury all together for a full holiday, if only half in jest.

But where eager Cotgrave was anchored by familial obligations, Phillips and Salisbury were merely hesitant in matters of the uncanny. In truth, the latter pair had positively gawped at him. Their eyes asked wordlessly if the stamp of inhuman horror had magically been blotted out of his memory or if he’d simply abandoned sense altogether. Dyson laughed at the looks, especially Salisbury’s. He of the straight-lined life and the wincing insistence that Dyson keep all answers to himself when it came to the mystery of Dr. Black and the query of Q, only to come slinking curiously back with questions upon seeing Dyson’s haggard mien post-discovery.

As if reading the memory in him, Salisbury’s face flamed and turned away while Dyson continued, “My friends, I would no sooner part with the haunting of those experiences than a writer of penny horrors would relinquish the muse of his nightmares. Ambrose here will rightly call it perverse with you—he is the adept where I am the amateur—but he knows the worth of retaining the proofs of what he calls ‘sin’ and we politely deem merely the ‘weird’ or the ‘supernatural.’ Cotgrave, dear fellow, you at least have an open mind on the subject. If we can manage it, would you appreciate a souvenir of the strange ash for your desk?”

“Cotgrave,” Phillips had cut in with an aridity to dry the ocean, “has not been put into contact with anything more harrowing than some poor child’s grotesque diary. He and I,” he’d nodded to Salisbury who was muffling himself with the wineglass, “had the dubious fortune to play witness to the far end of your direct jabbing at the unknown, neither of which bore anything but blighted fruit. The sight of that miserable treasure hunter’s golden relic was more than enough for me. Salisbury, for his trouble, had enough poisonous proof poured in his ear as thirdhand storytelling to make him rightly uneasy, followed by wondering whether you had been struck by some ailment after prying too far.” He’d turned fully to Salisbury. “Has Dyson ever breathed a word of what it was that shocked that new white up his temple after chasing the scrap of a cipher and Dr. Black’s work?”

It was Dyson’s turn to look away. He had not told Salisbury about Travers’ shop. Certainly not about the opal and what it held. Nor would he ever. He knew even the most sublime prose would fail to do the spectacle or its horror justice. Salisbury would suffer for it, as most of his friends would, and so he burned his tongue with holding the story in. For the most part.

He’d broken enough to recite the event to Ambrose in tragically plain terms. Ambrose had nodded, recorded his statement in one of many journals kept for the purpose of notes and scrapbooking, and shelved it away with the rest of the flotsam that clogged the bookcases which stood in for his walls. The recluse gave his oath not to breathe a word of the case’s final act to another.

“At least not until you are too dead to speak on your own behalf,” Ambrose had added. Dyson found the terms satisfactory.

Yet the fact of his having an encounter so disturbing he’d not even shared it with his most sober of friends still managed to work against his invitation to the strange scene in Surrey. Even Cotgrave shook his head.

“No need of the ash, my friend. I will settle for a description of whatever you dredge up in those hills.” Dyson noted the sickish pallor that washed over him as he pronounced the last word. Phillips shifted uncomfortably in his own seat. Salisbury ran out of wine to nurse and set his glass aside.

“I will be curious of whatever account you bring back,” came his intonation, “if only to know whether you are treading on more tangible toes than some unseen wraith’s.” Salisbury had canted his gaze sharply at Dyson. “No, you have not told me what it was you did upon following the trail of breadcrumbs I mistakenly revealed to you. But I would be a fool not to assume you went and did something unwise regarding the business of those strangers in the note. Q and friends and whoever else. They are real people. Just as Dr. Steven Black was. Just as Phillips and the whole of London recalls the late Sir Thomas Vivian being quite real, and more immediately dangerous than any bogeyman lurking beyond our respective brushes with the so-called supernatural.”

“Sinful,” Ambrose corrected over the rim of his own glass.

“Indeed,” Salisbury sighed. Dyson did feel a trifle apologetic toward the man. He seemed to have aged a decade since he’d stepped back into his life. “But be they supernatural or sinful or just plain mad, human monsters are the more prolific villain of the world, and far easier to cross paths with. Dr. Richard Geber was a man of considerable notoriety with, I would wager, any number of watchful vultures in the branches of the family tree and as many serpents playing patron to his less savory works at the roots.” He’d leaned in, regarding Dyson and Ambrose in the same plea. “Do your sightseeing if you must, but be wary of what prying you do whilst playing occult detectives. A man seeing a nuisance is far more likely to take action against it than any monster.”

Dyson sadly lost his opportunity to assure Salisbury and the rest of his planned caution, as Salisbury had used the word ‘occult’ and set off a fresh avalanche from Ambrose. Talk plunged into proper distinctions of the extraordinary and the eerie, somehow managing to trip into a round of storytelling that marched through the suicide epidemic of certain well-off young men who he theorized had each encountered the same unearthly stimulus whose knowledge could not be lived with, around to an ugly room in a rented country house with a habit of seeding a mirrored insanity in wives and daughters who spent too long in the sight of its irregular damask walls, and all the way to the facts in the case of the pseudonymous M. Valdemar, that mesmeric scandal that might not have been half so sensationalized as cynics might declare…

Salisbury had put his head in his hands while Dyson, Cotgrave, and Phillips settled in for the monologue, feeding the orator only what flints of dialogue were needed to roll him further on. Were he onstage, Ambrose would have deserved a lozenge, a bouquet, and ten minutes’ applause.

That was then.

In the now, Dyson and Ambrose sat in their car, preemptively swaddled against the first drifting motes of snow. November seemed only to have warmth enough left with which to give Geber’s estate its theatrical sendoff with its roiling thunderheads and dancing lightning. With that performance done, the sky handed its reins off to winter’s sedate styling. The train drew itself along under a ceiling of gauze and into the broad country whose rumpled hills and evergreen treetops were already hiding themselves in caps of cold white. Not that such seasonal flurries would have been any more help to the roasted manor than the downpour of the incendiary night had been.

Dyson riffled out the sections of newsprint he had brought along for the trip.

Headlines bellowed across the earliest of them:

STORM-STRUCK IN SURREY!

SPARKS FLY OVER GEBER’S BLAZE!

BLINDING FIRE DEVOURS MANOR OVERNIGHT!

And so forth.

The sum of these pieces was a remarkable series of witness reports from the staff who’d escaped the building before they could burn with it. Miraculously, every member of staff had made it out with barely a scorch mark between them. Even the horses, hens, and hounds of the estate were unscathed. It was only Dr. Geber and, the staff declared, a number of colleagues who had remained inside. Corroboration from the nearest towns confirmed that Geber was indeed housing several ‘learned gentlemen’ under his expansive roof for the purpose of some private experiment being undertaken in his home laboratory.

All that saved the staff from especially sharp scrutiny was the likewise-confirmed evidence of just where that laboratory was located.

“Geber had it all built underground,” claimed more than one servant. “He up and abandoned the one he kept at the top of the house half a decade back. Had a whole little nest of catacombs hollowed out lower than the cellar, moved in all sorts of equipment and chemicals and such. We saw it all go through the big double doors he had set in the back of the house. Figured him and his fellows would come up by that way or the little stairwell indoors. Whoever wasn’t eaten up by the blast, at least.”

The blast which had not come from the heavens by way of the frantic lightning that night, but from right under the floorboards. One poor girl, Elsa Godwin, had gone down to fetch a jar of preserves and been the first to hear a series of what sounded like detonations rattling up from the ground. A distant crackle, a hair-prickling hum, a string of boom-boom-boom, all muffled by earth and concrete. That, and men screaming. There was barely time to hear as much before she also got to play first witness to the memorable fire; a blaze that begun at once to eat holes through the floor and western wall of the cellar.

“I thought I was dreaming at first,” to quote Miss Godwin. “It all felt too impossible to be happening while I was awake. The fire only made it seem less real. Real fire isn’t supposed to work that way, you see? Real fire, it meets a solid wall of dirt or rock and that’s as far as it goes. Singes it, maybe, but it can’t just go burning through everything like it’s a paper dollhouse. But that was just what it did. While it was eating its way up the stairs to the doctors’ laboratory, it punched on through to the cellar. And even that I may have accepted as real enough, but for the look of it.”

The look of that fire was described by her, by her coworkers, by those who rode up to gawk in person or make a feeble attempt at playing fire brigade, and even by a number of technical witnesses who could see the glimmer of it from their far-off windows, all in varying states of poetry or dumbstruck curtness.

The fire had not been orange.

The fire had been black. And white. And yellow. And red. All of these at once, every flame throwing its improbable light as if it fell through some nebulous crystal. Its palette might have been more enchanting if it weren’t for the fact that it was, as Miss Godwin and many more would claim, a fantastically voracious thing. So much so that Miss Godwin had scarcely made it back up the steps to shout the alarm before tongues of fire were poking up through the floor.

It truly was a miracle that everyone aboveground had fled in time. The second miracle had come from the fact that, even lightning-struck as the roof was, it remained mercifully solid while the multihued fire ate up the lower floors. So solid that Fate kindly used it as the hand to snuff the monstrous blaze. The walls turned out to be so quickly enfeebled by their change to ash that they could no longer support the heavy slants and shingles. So the roof had crushed the creeping flames under its lid, dousing the fire with sheer speed, weight, and luck. It was as unlikely a thing as a man crushing a viper’s head flat with his fist before it could bite.

Another bittersweet bout of good fortune came from the positioning of the laboratory itself. Whatever state the subterranean workings had been in post-explosion, they apparently made for an efficient ashpit. When the roof slammed down, it compacted everything below directly into the waiting pocket of hollowed earth. What could have been a conflagration was tucked tidily away almost as soon as the proverbial match was struck. Though it had doubtlessly come at the cause and cost of the very men who had sparked the fire with some experiment gone awry.

“Some manner of chemical flame, a catastrophic bungling of electrical tinkering, or both,” professed numerous experts hunted down in their own labs and campuses. Dyson imagined they were perhaps a bit put out that Geber had done them the simultaneous mercy and unspoken insult of not inviting them to join whatever it was he and his colleagues had been dabbling with. An experiment of such secrecy and apparent potency that the man had not only tunneled out a buried laboratory for it, not only erected new stone walls and double-locked iron gates around his home, not only scoured fields across the scientific spectrum to people its undertaking—for chemists, engineers, technologists, surgeons, and sundry in-betweens were numbered among the missing and/or immolated dead—but even hired on a number of ‘attendants’ that the surviving staff recalled as having staggering guardsman physiques.

All this to keep the experiment hermetically sealed and shielded.

All this, only for a number of ears at the nearest pubs and markets to catch wind of the thing’s name anyway: Project Erichtho.

A secret experiment named for the necromancing witch of legend could only be yet another spur to the public imagination, turning a noteworthy housefire into a potential hellish horror story. Requisite headlines included:

FRANKENSTEIN’S ACOLYTE, ERICHTHO’S ECHO—DR. GEBER’S UNHOLY HEROES!

PROJECT ERICHTHO’S PARANORMAL PYRE!

SORDID SECRETS AND A DOCTOR’S DEADLY DESIGN: THE KINDLING FOR THE INFERNO OF ERICHTHO?

“It could be he’s gone on to join his heroes in a sordid afterlife,” some would say in tones that alternately scorned or cooed. “Faustus and Frankenstein may have a place waiting for him in a deeper inferno. It’s the sort of thing one gets from prying too far into Nature’s business, after all.”

So on and so on. Dyson had clipped everything of interest and strung the whole thing into a sort of haphazard file in contrast to Ambrose’s tidier pasting. Ambrose was even polite enough to feign renewed interest in the piecemeal newsprint despite the information being doubtlessly memorized already.

“Not memorized,” Ambrose said over a headline declaring Geber had conjured the Devil in his cellar. He opened his coat as if displaying illicit wares, flashing the holster where he kept a waiting notepad and pen. His was an especially tailored overcoat with a number of buttoned and hidden pockets for all his necessities. One might think he hardly needed his luggage but for a change of clothes. “My cheats are simply copied out and kept close like a good pupil’s before an exam.” He patted the lapel back in place. “I am not a man made to leave his cave often, Dyson. Therefore I must wrap myself as much in my mobile cave as I can.”

“Would that not make it your shell?”

“I suppose it would. It is a difficult thing for a snail or tortoise to be robbed of his home. Unless the thief is some errant bird after the homeowner, of course. But for all that I have my faiths and proofs in the uncanny, your Salisbury was right. Men are the most common threat to a man. They rob one of goods and life at a moment’s notice far more than any aberration.”

“Ah, that begs a question I’ve meant to ask.” Dyson waved his helping of papers as a baton. “You know the reality of seemingly unreal things. What you call your sinful, wrong, not-meant-to-be sort of phenomena and entities. Were you to find yourself cornered in the proverbial dark alley with an ordinary mortal cutthroat at one end and an unearthly bogeyman at the other, which villain would you risk?”

Ambrose offered a sliver of a smile and turned his attention back to the snow flitting by the window. He passed his helping of newsprint back blindly.

“You have only listened to my rambles with half an ear,” he said. “It’s true that what you would dub the supernatural I would call sinful, but I have yet to declare such things innately villainous. Otherworldly, yes. Eldritch is a decent term. Unwelcome too, at least in what we deem sane and right by the laws of Nature or our manmade structures. Or, to satisfy the macabre itch, yes, I would deem the whole breadth of it horrific. And yet, for all that we have assembled a fair collection of events that ended in death or worse as a result of crossing bizarre influences—indeed, enough to condemn many in, say, the demoniac terms of evil—the fact remains that even a living horror is not guaranteed to be villainous. To that end, let us look at your scenario. If I knew for a fact the ordinary man at one end of my alley intended absolutely to kill me, knife ready for my throat whether or not I handed over my money, whereas the horror at the other end was a complete enigma? I would simply have no choice but to remain still.”

Dyson lost himself to a laugh and crowed, “That is no answer! The scenario was a choice. Who do you risk pushing past? The common murderer or the uncommon enigma?”

“The threat,” Ambrose pronounced carefully, “of a horror is in the uncertainty of what it is and what such a thing is capable of. The cutthroat means to kill me, yes. But the horror? It may mean to end me as well, but in a far more hideous way. In fact, it may intend to inflict something far more unthinkable than the mercy of mere execution, such that the cutthroat would be a blessing of euthanasia by comparison.”

“Ah,” Dyson jabbed his paper baton again, “so you would take the cutthroat for the certainty of him.”

“No. I would remain still.”

“Ambrose—,”

But Ambrose held up his hand.

“I would remain still until one or the other proved himself the lesser evil. For the horror at the other end of the alley may have no ill design whatsoever. Being frightening does not immediately qualify the monster in question as a villain. After all, how many legendary monsters of old have we revealed as mere animals? How many unfortunate souls are there in the world, born with off-putting ailments or disfigured by circumstance, who possess the purest of Good Samaritan character? By the same measure, how many are there with the faces of Venus and Adonis who scatter only petty cruelties in their wake? Even creatures as humble as the common spider will terrorize some of the hardiest men as much or more than their wives. Yet the spider is there to help, tidying flying pests from the home just as the pretty housecat unsheathes her teeth and claws only to bloody her keeper’s hand.

“In short, a horror will horrify, naturally. A horror is capable of far worse things than any human effort. But a horror is not inherently a villain. I am happy to keep things in the hypothetical until I am faced with the awful choice in person, but should I choose to wait, to remain still and force one or the other to make his move, I am certain the motives of the inhuman party would be made clear. It would strike, or retreat, or…”

“Or what?”

“Or it would do as the first horrors of Creation did and be as an angel. Fallen or otherwise.” The topic clipped there as the station came into view.

Fighting the frost and the numb-faced arrival at their rented lodgings sponged up the rest of the day’s energy between the two of them. A hasty dusk and a heavy supper knocked both men back in their chairs and soon the ruddy comforts of the inn dragged them down into an early night.

Ambrose, Dyson was unsurprised to see, had turned into an insomniac so far from his preferred den. He was at the window puffing at the little ember in the clay bowl and staring out at the dark when Dyson finally surrendered to his bed midnight. Come morning, Dyson found he remained at his perch, puffing still.

“I did sleep,” Ambrose assured before the other could speak. “On and off. My dry eyes played traitor and made me lose watch for a few hours at a time.”

Dyson stilled in the effort of lacing his boots. He saw that the faint pouches that had been under his friend’s eyes last night had only deepened. The ashtray set on the windowsill was full.

“Geber’s housefire notwithstanding, I can’t imagine there’s anything worth spying on in these parts. Especially not on a moonless night.”

“It wasn’t moonless,” Ambrose said as he rubbed crust from either eye. His head gradually creaked away from the window to face Dyson. “I saw it come out in cracked clouds here and there. It helped somewhat, but I could still make out a little of the show either way.”

“What show was that?”

“I’m not certain. Some kind of domestic dispute? It involved either a very mad or a very sad individual on a rooftop.”

“What?”

“He got down alright. A giant came to gather him up and bring him indoors.”

“…How much did you have to drink after I went to bed?”

“Not a drop. The whole of it took place with that little house out toward the east there. You see?” Dyson followed where Ambrose pointed. There were numerous petite houses sprinkled along the crest of a far cluster of hills. He was about to point out the issue when his gaze caught on one that stood out from its siblings. Ambrose defined it at the same time, “It has its fresh cap of snow all ruined by their footprints. The man’s little pinpricks and the giant’s awl marks, so to speak. It happened that as I was woolgathering, a yellow light came on in the upper window. The shape of a man blotted it for a moment before the window swung open and the fellow climbed out.

“It wasn’t a pleasant sight even at a distance. He didn’t move like any climber I ever saw. More like,” Ambrose made a face, “I don’t know. An animal? An insect? Something like that. Whatever he was, he made it up there. So I assumed by how the darkness erased him when he skittered up. The first crack in the clouds helped me here, for it dropped a yellow beam on the house and showed the man standing on the very top of the roof. This he did while wearing no more than a pair of trousers and a coat that hung on him like drapes. A lone stick figure balanced on the ridge. Then a moment later, the giant came.”

“Not bounding over the hills, I take it?”

“No. He blocked the entirety of the lit window before he contorted himself out and climbed up after the man. His motion was a far more fluid thing, if likewise strange in how he placed his limbs. Were my eyes a little poorer, I might have mistaken him for some massive panther scaling a mountainside. But he was human enough seen from my seat. Just outlandish in his size and proportions. A hulking figure, yet corded and angled in a way you seldom see with men we might take for a contemporary Goliath.”

“I see. And what happened when he reached David?”

“The moon ducked out of sight for the first moment. It took a minute before it peeked through again to offer a silhouette of the meeting. Man and giant were facing each other with the giant seeming the most animated of the two. He gesticulated first with frantic violence, then as if he were beckoning the man like a stray from a gutter, and ultimately coaxed his frailer counterpart to extend a twig of an arm. The giant clamped onto it and seemed prepared to yank the man from his perch. But the man pointed with his free hand at the moon. This made the giant pause. The boulder of a head turned up. They stared together at the great ivory ball. But sense eventually overruled wonder and the giant maneuvered them both back in the window. The curtains were drawn. I figured that was the end of it.”

Dyson had by now fully dressed and packed for the day. He paused to raise a brow.

“Was it not?”

“No. Some while later, a light glowed in a lower window. David and Goliath walked outside. At least I assume it was David with Goliath. The spindly figure was erased in a massive clot of coats and blankets, it seemed, and so almost passed for a full-bodied individual. The giant shadowed him and forced a cup on him that I imagined must be steaming as it rose and fell from the man’s face. The moon was polite enough to show itself a few more times through the filmier clouds. Even the stars made some appearances. By dawn much of the clouds had broken up so that they skimmed across a half-clean sky. I saw the Morning Star hover in the horizon. The man pointed to this or the molten sunrise. The giant nodded and looked with him, patient as anything. Then David was herded back inside and I saw no more.”

Dyson hummed at all this and eyed the little house again. It really was a fair space away.

“Are you certain you saw a man and a giant? At this distance could it not have been some fevered child and his father?”

“If I were using my eyes alone, I might concede the possibility. Except.” Dyson watched him dig in his coat and produce a collapsed spyglass. “I have brought the full accoutrement of the hermit along, my friend. Its details were few, but far crisper than our sight alone.” A specter of mingled thrill and discomfort twitched along his lips. The former won just enough to pin the mouth up at one corner. “Though I wonder if that was a mistake.”

“Afraid they spied your spying? The threadbare David sounds like a stargazer. Perhaps he swung his lens around to find you in the dark.” Dyson spoke only to rib him. Instead he seemed to strike Ambrose like a lead weight. A greyish tinge passed in and out of his face as his gaze flicked back to the window. “Come now, there was no light on in here. Even if the pair had an astronomer’s lens between them, they’d never know you’d spotted their nocturnal theatre.”

“They had no lens at all,” Ambrose said. His lips still held in the unhappy upward curl. “Yet they did turn to look at this window. David first. Then Goliath. I cannot say whether they saw me, but…” Ambrose rolled the spyglass in his hand before replacing it in its pocket. “I saw a hint of their faces. Just the eyes. I may have imagined it. Some illusion of moonlight or sunrise. But the illusion was very crisp.”

“The illusion being what?”

“They were yellow, Dyson,” he almost chuckled. “Like the stare of animals caught in firelight. Bright as the lamps. And they did not turn from their staring in this direction until after I set the spyglass down.” Ambrose looked up at him. The whites of the man’s own eyes had gone rose-pink. “We’ve not yet set foot on Geber’s ash pile and already I have something for my notes.”

“Perhaps,” Dyson nodded carefully. “Perhaps you do. Or else a late night played on your conscience and sharpened your subjects into things that could chide you at a distance for spying. I have no such conscience on that subject and so might have missed their flashing eyes. Still, it is something for the diary. But only after breakfast.”

Dead, Buried

Breakfast came, breakfast went. Ambrose’s state barely loosened from its troubled knot. By the time they set out to poke around the week-old ruin under a dusting of snow, Dyson noted only a half-return to the man’s usual ease. He thought to remind him of the unhappy adventure involving the cruelly departed Agnes Black, to commiserate over the difference between the aftermath of the strange compared to meeting eyes with it, but swallowed it all down. Such talk would only rip up the scab, not plaster it.

In this mood, they took their way to the housefire’s wreckage with thin conversation. It only thickened again as the coach let them out at the site’s gates. They had been locked over again by the authorities and yesterday’s powder had made the surprisingly tidy mound and its rooftop cap into an anonymous lump of debris. Hardly worth the trip. But the sight of the ruin was only a fraction of their purpose there.

Dyson instructed the coachman to return in an hour to the same spot to retrieve them. The coachman eyed the two warily. He’d no doubt seen more than his fair helping of journalists and policemen in the past seven days than any soul ought to deal with. But pay was pay and he seemed content to reappear in roughly an hour’s time, sirs, give or take another customer’s route. Dyson and Ambrose waited until the horse-drawn speck was almost out of sight before they began their march around the the high stone wall that passed for the ex-manor’s fence. Their breath trailed after them in white streams.

“He really had the place made up like a fortress, didn’t he?” Dyson observed. “Look here. Even the ornaments along the top are like spires. No one could go hopping in or out without undoing the seams of his skin in the attempt.”

“Project Erichtho was a thing to covet as much as conjure.” Ambrose dug again in his coat, this time bringing out his notepad. He thumbed to one close-scribbled page. “Do you know, this manor was his for less than a decade? He took the place seven years ago and left behind a far more metropolitan estate. A handsome spot, but not half so private or titanic as this.” Ambrose knocked his knuckles against the stonework.

Dyson knocked his shoulder in turn, “I see you go a-haunting places other than your home while our backs are turned. You are a fraud of a recluse.”

“On special occasions, yes.”

“And the timeline of Geber’s road to the freakish blaze meets your standards.”

“Very much so. You see, he had his career in the city, for all its lauded highs and scandalous lows. And his one trip out of that area was also his first and last trip out of the country. I was told he took a holiday up to Switzerland.”

“Told by who?”

“Former staff. All the ones in the manor were local hands. The original workers say he returned home from his holiday with a wild new passion—,” Ambrose paused to catch Dyson’s eye, “—and a souvenir. One that they never saw removed from its massive box. The nearest guess anyone could make was that it must be one of those majestic Swiss clocks or perhaps some statue bought on a whim. None would it put it past him to purchase a likeness of his spiritual muse, or maybe a rendering of the latter’s infamous creation. But no one ever saw the contents in person. He had this thing moved into his upstairs laboratory, locked the door, and neither butler nor maid was permitted to set foot in the room for the rest of the year.”

“Mysterious enough,” Dyson agreed while shaking a snow clump off his boot. “Though I can hardly picture Switzerland as possessing any equivalent to Pandora’s Box.”

“Nor could the staff. But they never did wring an answer from Geber. No more than they ever confirmed what all his latest experiments were in that locked room. Whatever they were, the staff thought there must have been some noise to muffle. Geber started playing his phonograph whenever he set foot inside, letting the opera warble over whatever din went on in his work.” Ambrose tucked the notepad away and tugged at his glove. “When it came time for his sudden exodus to the far-off manor, the movers discovered the box was nailed shut again, offering no one even a parting peek at the treasure.”

“And what is the import of this crate, exactly?” Dyson asked, even as he guessed. It was hard to avoid, keeping his steps aligned with Ambrose’s as they circled to the rear of the estate. The trees loomed with their snowy crowns sawing against the blue-white sky. They were close to where the acreage sloped into woodlands.

“None of the new staff mentioned its arrival or its being toted down with the rest of Project Erichtho’s flotsam. In fairness, the interviewed parties likely had far more on their minds than the exact nature of their employer’s bric-a-brac. Especially when the project appears to have begun in earnest four years ago.”

“But,” Dyson intercepted, “the staff in the city dwelling remembered his fixation with the thing seven years prior. And if the manor’s fresher workers could remember that his other scientific oddments were loaded underground, surely they’d recall him fussing about the box.”

“Such is my guess,” nodded Ambrose. He stopped them both short as the exact back end of the stone wall came into view. “Geber likely would’ve clung like a shadow to the movers whether they brought it by the inner stairs or through the back entry. Yet there was no mention of it in their accounts. Almost as if he couldn’t bear to have more eyes upon it than absolutely necessary. And, naturally, there is the issue no other paper or ponderer has mentioned regarding the novelty of a subterranean workplace.” Here, at last, Ambrose began to grin. “One that even the miner or a digger of catacombs needn’t bother themselves over.”

“Because the men in the mines and catacombs don’t have to work within a hermetic seal,” Dyson concluded, beaming back. “They have a way constantly open to the air. The staff claim that the entryways into the laboratory were always shut and guarded by a boredly vigilant set of guards. A tricky area to provide ventilation for with no opening. Unless there was a third threshold somewhere that Geber neglected to mention to the house staff. Say,” he waved a glove at the waiting woods, “hidden in some convenient cover of wilderness.”

“It’s where I would hide a second backdoor in his position,” Ambrose agreed as he ogled the rear of the stone wall and the adjacent trees. “If the back of the manor was here,” he marched with measured steps to the back gate, likewise locked, and regarded the ashes beyond the iron, “then the broader outdoor entrance was likely slotted there with it. A tunnel connected to the underground work area would not be situated far off. So…” He turned and traced an invisible line from the ashes to the woods and away to the west. “A straight route from here on is likely to bear fruit.”

“Would it not be simpler to circle around?” Dyson asked this of the waiting trees as much as his friend. “If Geber’s precious crate was also moved in by this hidden corridor, surely it would be someplace near the edge of this tangled patch. It’s no narrow copse, but I’d rather amble around it rather than risk the trudge inside.”

“Normally I would agree. However.” Ambrose stomped purposefully along the slope, leaving clear tracks as he went. “If we want better odds against our own amateur detective work being spied on, we must take advantage of what little cover we can. Salisbury would tell you so.”

“Salisbury would be down with a skull-cracking headache over the prospect from any angle,” Dyson countered. But they went through the woods just the same. The snow had come in lightly through the coniferous canopy and it traded their softer snow-plush tracks for a brittle thudding along frozen earth. A quarter of an hour’s search and a number of brambles later they came upon a clearing cluttered with large stones. Dyson felt Ambrose bristle at his side. Not from the cold.

He had read the precious and painful little green book Ambrose regarded as one of his truest treasures. The book that contained the child-ramblings of a lost girl, of strange white figures, of stones carved and twisting with ancient unholy influence. Mercifully, the mystique was soon spoiled.

The clearing had let in a little more of the snow through the gap in the canopy and when the powder was brushed aside it revealed nothing but moss and bird droppings on every rock. Another glance showed a number of stunted logs also strewn about. A makeshift sitting area. Ambrose took a spot on one of the logs and set to picking burrs from his trousers. Dyson thought he looked a little ruddier for having seen the rocks were plain.

“Well, convenience dictates that a secret entrance would be around here.” He pointed to what would be a few minutes’ walk to where the open light of a meadow waited. “Any closer to the edge and it wouldn’t be hidden at all.”

“True, true,” Ambrose nodded, removing his hat to shake off the frost and pine needles. “But even if we were on top of the thing, there’d be the second trouble of spotting it while it’s disguised. There was likely one or more guards on duty. On the off-chance that some wanderer came by they’d need to have some way to mask the opening.”

Dyson thought as much too and had been scrutinizing the ground. He’d found a good stick to claw up the dirt with. So far, no convenient trapdoor presented itself. As he prodded, he caught himself mulling over the hypothetical guards themselves. Surely they couldn’t have been caught in the blaze. Even if they’d been struck by a heroic urge, there wouldn’t have been time to rush to the manor and attempt a rescue. Yet he recalled no interview with any such person in the aftermath of the pyre, only those domestic staff who minded the house itself. So where had they gone?

The answer was hidden under a rock.

Specifically, the largest of the rocks in the clearing. Dyson’s stick came to a stop in its shadow as the branch suddenly dipped an inch into the ground where he’d dragged it. The snowfall masked it, but not well enough.

“Ambrose.” He patted the broad rock. “This stone isn’t supposed to be here.”

“What?”

“Look here.” He dragged his stick back and forth over the hidden groove beneath the powder. “It was moved out of place.”

Dyson and Ambrose eyed this only a moment before taking position on the stone’s opposite side. Together, after many a shove and as many curses, the rock budged. Not all at once, but in bursts. Between lurches they agreed that it had to have been put in place by far stouter strongmen than themselves. Their thoughts broke away at the same time when their next push dropped a leg from each of them down into the earth. There was much floundering and flopping aside to save themselves from slipping entirely into the hollow. When they’d recovered themselves, they peered down into the new opening. A wisp of daylight revealed hints of the interior. Shards of wood. The angles of a short staircase. And there, laying at the foot of the steps—

“Oh,” Dyson breathed. “Oh, God.”

“I fear He isn’t involved here,” Ambrose murmured back.

They lurched the stone the rest of the way, moving with caution until the entire hole was revealed. A square of earth had been cut away for the tunnel’s mouth. A set of heavy mangled hinges showed where a crude but sturdy door had been bolted into place. The door itself was the source of the wood shards, the largest of them showing they’d had a covering of dirt, leaves, twigs, and pebbles all pasted on to mask it. To judge by the frame, the door was meant to be pulled up rather than pushed in. As the stone was flat on the bottom, it could only be surmised that someone had smashed the timber in rather than bother with the lock.

Perhaps that was why the guards had died. They hadn’t been quick enough to offer a key.

Two men of powerful build were left crumpled at the bottom of the steps like ragdolls. One had his head wrenched entirely around on his shoulders. The other had his head crushed in like an eggshell. Whoever had done the work, they’d also seen fit to strip the broken-necked man of all but his underclothes, even down to his shoes. The man with the pulped skull had lost only a coat.

“I believe this is where our investigative ghost story hits a snag,” Dyson said, if only because someone needed to speak. The words did little to settle the chill now twining up his back. “We need to have the police up here.”

“We will,” Ambrose said, digging in his coat. Out came his matches. “But first.” He struck a light. “Recall that we are not here in search of ghosts. Ghosts are vapor. Their only weight is given to them by the storytelling.” He flicked the match into the tunnel so that it soared over the corpses. Dyson followed its glow with wide eyes. “Whereas the party responsible here exists with or without fireside theatre.” Dyson was already inclined to believe him. The sight revealed by the match merely forged faith into knowledge.

On the night of the fire there had been a positive torrent to go with the thunder and lightning. Once the guards and door were brutalized out of commission and left broken on the tunnel steps, a river of mud had dribbled in after the intruder. In the carpet of now-dried muck were smeared remnants of footprints. Most were colossal and led two ways, going forward and back. Whoever had made them was large enough to dwarf the dead men. A second set of footprints tramped back with these first massive soles, the barefoot steps looking far closer to human dimensions.

Beyond these smeared prints and just out of reach of the match’s light was the outline of a wide cart.

“Spare another?” Ambrose passed Dyson the matches. Dyson descended and made a rush to the cart. A match struck and showed the contents was discarded linen tarps all mottled with stains dark as rust. In the very center of the rumpled sheets, pointing to him, was a single rotten human finger.

The match went out.

Dyson raced back up to the daylit earth and rattled off the find to Ambrose.

“It does line up. An experiment named after Erichtho could hardly earn the title without doing something unwholesome with corpses.” Ambrose inclined his head at the tunnel. “It’s certainly not the kind of material Geber would want the house staff spying on its way down to the lab.”

“I wonder about that.” Dyson righted himself and squinted up at the sun behind a veil of new clouds. “Who’s to say that the finger was already rotten when it lost its owner? Surely the towns would have something in the news about graverobbers pillaging their cemeteries for convenient goods.”

“True.” The word was small. Dyson looked to Ambrose as the man paused in jotting something in his notes. His gaze was suddenly very far, hooked on some unknown point in the trees. “Quite true. After all,” he slowly closed the notepad and tucked it away with gloves that trembled, “it’s only worthy of newsprint if the dead go missing. The living disappear every day.” Dyson watch his throat work strangely behind his scarf. His breath came in very brisk puffs. “Such is hardly worth a blink these days. What’s the time, Dyson?” Dyson checked his watch. They’d eaten up most of an hour and he said so. “Then we’d best head down to meet our coach. Now.”

“Should we replace the stone? What if some animal gets in and—,”

Ambrose seized his shoulder. His head still hadn’t turned away from the trees. His voice came out so low there was almost no breath to whiten.

“Dyson. Now. Quick, but—but do not run.” His Adam’s apple seemed about to leap up through his mouth. “Now.” Dyson tried to follow Ambrose’s line of sight, but his friend was already dragging him like an errant sheep. Rather than take their original route, Ambrose shepherded them towards the nearest edge of the woodlands, out to the open snow.

“What happened to discretion?” Dyson asked in his own low pitch. Ambrose shook his head without fully taking his gaze away from the abruptly-fascinating patch of trees.

“We’ll be bringing authorities around here anyway. It hardly matters. Go. Just go. Once we get out in the open, we should—,” Behind them, a heavy branch snapped. To Dyson’s ears it sounded loud as breaking bone. Ambrose’s clutching hand became a vise. “Run.”

They did.

The gloom behind them snapped and rustled in a straight line after their heels. More, the ground itself twitched with the bounding of some unthinkable weight. Dyson thought ludicrously of bears or lions somehow migrating their way to this mild crumb of Surrey’s landscape. Yet he heard no animal snarl. Only the unimpeded breaking of the trees’ quiet as something titanic loped after its quarries.

Ambrose and Dyson broke out into the open meadow after a minute that felt like half an hour. They raced across the slope and around toward the fenced-in ruin of the manor at a frantic pace. Relief barely flickered in them as they saw the coach trotting up to the front gates. Their own tread was too wild to register if their pursuer was still galloping after them, but Dyson now felt the presence of eyes on him as surely as he’d feel the trundling of beetles along his neck.

The dead men flashed in his mind. Twisted and mashed and tossed in a pit. There was plenty of room to spare down there. New tenants welcome. And the coachman was so far, so far—

He stepped on one of his own bootlaces and went sprawling. When he moved to catch himself on his hands, his palm landed on something slicker than the snow, fumbling him so that he landed with elbow and cheek in the frost. It really was a pitiful layer of powder, he noted as his arm and face throbbed against the stiff ground. Ambrose skidded to a halt with him, almost falling as he scrambled on the frost. He might have shouted Dyson’s name. Dyson couldn’t be sure as he was peeling up the thing his hand had slid with. A leatherbound book with its cover lacquered in congealed mud.

“Dyson,” he heard Ambrose puff again. His breath was labored, but no longer a shout. “Dyson, can you stand?” Dyson looked up to see Ambrose’s attention was split between him and the trees. Nothing else was behind them. Dyson fixed his laces and regained his feet without releasing the book. “I think we can go at an easier pace now.”

“Yes. Possibly.”

Their new gait was not a sprint, but still a fair way ahead of anything leisurely. The driver looked at them oddly as they jogged over, at least until they gave him pay and directions for a trip to the nearest police station. Then his caterpillar brows shot up.

“Come across some trouble up there?”

“The human trouble has been and gone,” Dyson told him. “But they may want hunting rifles at hand for whatever creatures are roaming around in there.” The driver snorted at that.

“What creatures are those? Worst we’ve got in these parts are the damned foxes and a few snakes. Biggest thing I’ve seen was a buck that ran around last year. Had antlers two men wide.”

“It was no deer,” Ambrose assured him even as he craned his head again to face the trees. Dyson saw him fondling the part of his coat that held the spyglass. “In any case, it is a matter that would be helped by having a marksman ready.” The driver got no more from them as Dyson and Ambrose bundled themselves inside the coach. Ambrose hastily fumbled out the spyglass and watched the woods through his window until the treetops were out of sight.

“Not a deer, you say,” Dyson spoke as much to his mud-crusted souvenir as to the back of Ambrose’s head. “What then? I had no time to catch a glimpse.” Ambrose let out a breath as he collapsed the spyglass, fidgeting with the cylinder rather than tucking it away.

“Speaking frankly, I didn’t either. All I could spot in the gloom was the flash of bright eyes.” His throat twitched. “A gleam of yellow.” Dyson paused in his picking at the shell of hardened mud.

“Last night’s Goliath?”

“I don’t know. I cannot say with certainty whether the eyes belonged to a human shape or a creature on its haunches. Only that it was still as a statue in the gloom back there. Staring at us.” Ambrose shivered either from memory or cold and tucked the spyglass away in favor of his notes. He sketched rather than wrote. Scrawled across a clean page was the impression of two huge coins floating in a scribbled ink-shadow. The eyes featured pupils of a distinctly non-human make. “I am no artist, but this is roughly the look I caught watching us. They turned in the dark when we started for the trees’ edge. Then the eyes came forward.” He clapped the notes shut. “I found I was far more eager to be out of reach than to wait and see the eyes’ owner.” Ambrose gave him a tired smile. “I feel I’m halfway to a hypocrite after this. True, there was no alley and no waiting cutthroat, but I did run from the unknown when it came running.”

“Nonsense,” Dyson huffed. “Those eyes no doubt belonged to some exotic beast that escaped its pen in a zoo or some fool’s private menagerie. Nice open country like this is just the place you’ll find people with deep coffers and shallow sense hoarding pretty predators as though they were collecting pedigree hounds and cats. You wait, we’ll see something in the papers about somebody’s missing leopard or tiger prowling around the hills. Now, if that beast had cleared its throat in the dark and shouted at us in plain English to get out of its woods, there might be grounds to point and go a-ha! But as it had nothing to say and neither of us was polite enough to stand still and get mauled, the matter remains unsettled. Say, have you got a handkerchief you don’t mind ruining?”

Ambrose handed him one, his face finally regaining some tint as he puzzled over Dyson’s prize.

“It would be an opportune thing to be in a ghost story,” he sighed while Dyson scraped at the mud. “If we are, that will turn out to be a conveniently abandoned diary illustrating every move Geber made leading up to the fire, replete with his devilish experiments and all the lost spirits it conjured up. At the very least it will contain the chemical formula that led to such a unique blaze.”

Dyson scoured away most of the muck and frowned.

“Not a diary. Not even a tome of unholy scripture.”

“No?”

Dyson held the book up for him to see. Ambrose frowned back at him.

“No.”

The book was a leatherbound copy of The Legend of Frankenstein. What had been a luxurious volume had apparently been mangled by elements, animals, or else someone with a distinct loathing of the tale. Dyson had wondered at the lightness of the book and found that much of the pages were either shredded or torn out entirely. The inner cover alone had been spared attack, though it still boasted a minor bit of vandalism within:

There are not words enough to voice proper gratitude to the Muse, the Master, the Miracle. For lifetimes to come, even the finest poets of the world shall struggle to meet the task. Here and now, the most that can be said is thank you. Thank you for all that you have done, all that you are, all that is yet to come. A toast to the teachings of Prometheus, to Prima Materia, to the Magnum Opus realized!

—R.G.

Below this, a single line:

Mortui vivos docent.

“The dead teach the living. Interesting choice of postscript.”

“That isn’t all of it.” Ambrose took back the handkerchief and chipped further at a smear of muck still gripping the cover. It crumbled away to show words that had been stained into the board with a different pen. Almost carved.

Prometheus had nothing to teach. He stole the lightning for Man’s fire. The only worthwhile lesson of his myth was taught by the Eagle.

Erichtho might have had teachings to spare. The gods were wise enough to harken to her and know to quail. Yet mortal men care only for the dead’s secrets and the boons they might grant. These you will have. May the knowledge serve you as well as it has me.

No initial or signature was jotted with it, though some rough symbol was gouged below. A thing that curved and went straight at once, vaguely serpentine and somehow unpleasant in both its shape and the depth of its coarse engraving. As though the artist had been both incapable of finesse and insistent on carving the image regardless. Dyson and Ambrose each had a good squint at it and decided it was something related to a caduceus, the sign of medicine.

“The alchemic variant seems just as likely, if we’re to chase Geber’s words to their logical end,” Ambrose said in a tone that heartened as much as frustrated Dyson to hear. It meant the man’s nerves were settling, but also that his mind was now wandering down avenues several leagues away from the present, no doubt combing an internal library of references. Dyson flattered himself to know that he too had some scraps of intel to turn over. He recognized the Magnum Opus as referring to a ‘Great Work’ just as prima materia was a term for a sort of primal matter from which life and the universe was meant to be concocted. But no more than that. He’d need to dust off some old books or wait for Ambrose’s own ramble before he could scrounge up any deeper details.

As it turned out, Ambrose had sealed himself up in his head for the moment.

A moment which lasted long enough to get within talking distance of the police. They described the tunnel and what was in it. There was scarcely time to stretch their legs before they were riding along with the uniformed men, each thankfully armed. Sunset was almost racing them to the horizon by the time they trudged back to the clearing with lanterns in hand. Both men froze upon discovering it. When asked why:

“We didn’t leave it like this,” Dyson heard himself croak.

“How so?”

“The stone. We left it pushed aside when we left. The tunnel was still uncovered.”

Now the boulder was planted right back where it had been.

A hasty examination was made for tell-tale shoe prints, to little avail. New snow was fluttering down and filling things in with an accomplice’s speed. Giving it up, the group of them carefully shouldered the rock aside. Their caution’s reward was a column of acrid smoke that wafted up and plugged every unfortunate nose in reach. The last embers of a fire were dying down inside the tunnel.

The two corpses were roasted. The cart was a cinder. The tunnel’s floor had been glazed with oil and set alight until the whole bottom of the chute was a long black stream at least halfway to the underground entry point of the manor. Investigation to that farthest end revealed a pair of melted metal doors with burst windows. Beyond them there was only packed-in ash.

Dyson made no more mention of his hypothetical escaped animal.

Ambrose was not only silent about the Goliath seen from the window, but went so far as to draw his curtains before bed.

#Was Frankenstein Not the Monster?#frankenstein #mary shelley #arthur machen #the inmost light #the red hand #my writing #horror #hope you guys dig it #my art

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kryptonbabe · 13 days

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Superboy: Trouble in Paradise, A Review

I finished reading Superboy: Trouble in Paradise by Karl Kesel & Tom Geummet, it is a collected edition of the first 10 issues of Superboy's 1994 run, and although this was supposed to be the first volume in a series of books collecting this run, so far only the first one was released, sadly.

As for the book I felt like it was a sort of mixed bag, while Kon-el is an angel, an interesting character with flaws and room for development, which make him a very appealing character to be a fan of, other aspects of the stories would bring the narrative down.

Probably the most baffling issue here is how Kon-el is sexualized despite being only 15-16 years old, that information is brought up constantly by many characters, Conner himself, and yet we see most adult women in the book falling for this kid, flirting with him, making sexual innuendos and kissing him at some point. While the text calls attention to this problem the story refuses to discuss it in any meaningful way, Conner has a main romantic interest and she is a professional journalist who is aware of his age, but after a brief initial conflict, she just ignores this problem. I don't believe in taboos in fiction, anything can be discussed and debated, this story line could bring an interesting discussion about teenage sexuality and the adult responsibility required to deal with that, how this dynamic can happen between women and boys as well as it happens with men and girls. There is something to be said about this, but Karl Kesel won't go there, making this particular story line feel more voyeuristic and less an aspect of character building.

As I tried to ignore that and focus on the main plot lines, they could feel a bit generic, but would be often brought to life by Conner's charisma and the dynamics of the supporting cast, with characters like Dubbilex, the telepathic mentor, Lex Leech, the inescrupulosos manager and Roxy, his sanguine daughter, keeping things fun, which is the overall tone of the stories. The action in this book happens mostly in Hawaii and the atmosphere of it is clear from the beginning to the end, this is supposed to be a fun and light set of stories, and it mostly achieves that. Although the inclusion of issues concerning events of the time, World's Collide and Zero Hour, could be distracting and work to break the rhythm of the book. I was still interested enough in Kon-el to work my way through them and keep the focus, but that could be a problem for someone less invested in the character. Also the Zero Hour issue is a pretty good one if you're familiar with silver age Superboy, with touching homages to the 60s Superfamily stories.

One thing that is as charming as Conner and really helps to sell the feeling of the book is the art of Tom Grummet, a stylish take on 90's trends that still look cool and alive today. It's time for us to stop being so harsh with 90s comic book art, yes there were some duds there, but there are pretty decent works that hold up well to this day.

At the end I had my share of fun even considering how uneven this book can be at times, but I'm patient and back then Kon-el was a pretty new character, the editorial team and artists involved might have taken a little time to understand him and build stories to suit this new creation. It makes me sad that there's not a second volume to this book since I know Conner has a strong fan base that would be interested in buying it, me included. Thanks for reading this!

#superboy #conner kent #kon-el #superboy: trouble in paradise #comic book review #review #zero hour #dubbilex #text #dc comics #dc #comics #karl kesel #tom grummett #superboy 1994

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tamayakii · 1 year

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Simonrileyscockring aka Maxim is a liar and claims frogchiro stole their ideas. Here's proof he lied.

@simonrileyscockring Now since you dont wanna acknowledge me or my post calling you out, i decided to make it its own post so more people can see it. I don't like liars. i don't like virtue signalers "dni proshippers" we interacted tons of times, i sent you asks, my own art, we talked in dms, i even checked on you when i worried about you and now you're worried about "proshippers" and realize the term i identify with, which means "anti-harassment, respecting peoples fictional preferences" and not whatever tiktok-brained bullshit you think it is? So convenient you say that AFTER i send you an ask asking if you were gonna acknowledge what the hell you did. edits: the only edits i did was "@/" Konigsblog cause they said they apologized and acknowledged what they did, whether or not the apology is accepted is not up to me.

original call out below: you absolute dunce. i LOVED your writing before but the drama on your page, responding to hate anons rather than just deleting their asks drove me off. I have so many words for you

EVERYONE can see your personal posts, they just don't LIKE them cause who the fuck wants to like a post that's a vent post? it feels wrong, people see it and choose not to react, people see you vagueing about someone stealing "your" concepts (which theyve written BEFORE cod fandom erupted on tumblr and aka before YOUR popularity) they'll want to know cause stealing writing is very serious!! but oh wait!!! they didn't steal shit!!! They never wrote about a teenager, which btw when you say all this shit and show no proof it fucking sucks!! cause people are so tiktok-brained that they will believe anything!

Because you decided to pull a fuckin mean girl move with @/konigsblog you ruined someone's love for writing and this fandom. "no one got harmed" my fucking ass. You as a writer should know that motivation comes and goes, and that hyperfixtations can be the closest thing to people. So rather than acting like a fucking man, you vague and claim they wrote about a minor as well, btw heres the teenager you claim is well, a teenager

Scaramouche is a puppet made by Raiden Ei, over 500 years ago to the current time in genshin impact. When Raiden Ei's sister had passed and she wanted to make a puppet to be the archon but she left him in a slumbering state, free from her own control cause he came to life crying which puppets aren't supposed to do. He woke up and thought she abandoned him, then OVER 5 HUNDRED YEARS AND THREE BETRYALS LATER. The fandom baby-fies him admittedly, but he's not obsessed with his mother nor does he have a teenager mentality. He's a bitter and aloof character, only getting mad when his creation or betrayals are brought up,

"a teenager physqiue" Okay lets challenge that, In the game this model is called Short_Male, it been used for Cyno, Tighnari, Kazuha, Xiao, Albedo, Mika, Chongyun, Bennet, Xingqiu, Heizou, Gorou, Venti, Razor, and even the male traveller.(I'm gonna use basic terms since you obviously never played the game if you think he's child like) Cyno is basically an officer in the game for the Akademiya, aka an adult. Tighnari is basically like a forest ranger, an adult. Kazuha sails around the sea while being a poet AND a sword expert because of his family line, becoming an expert swordsman takes YEARS even in real life, he's an adult. Xiao is over 5,000 years old and a "deputy" for an Archon. Albedo is a synthetic experiment human made 500 years ago from the current timeline in the game. Heizou is also a cop, an adult. Gorou is a fucking ADMIRAL, an adult. VENTI is literally over 2k years old. an adult. The traveller is AT LEAST over a thousand years old, cause the traveller that you choose slumbers for 500 years.

The rest are hinted to be late teenagers or early twenties depending on who you ask.

I even took pictures of these models in-game compared to a Tall_Male model!

Here's scaramouche, compared to Diluc and Tighnari! who aren't children! Now let's see an actual model of CONFIRMED children, why don't we?

here we have klee, who despite being something like 50 or 75 years old, is still mentally a child!! So she has the child model since she is still physically growing up, unlike Scaramouche AND Albedo.

Scaramouche isn't a child. he doesn't have child-like features. He's not obsessed with his mother, cause he does not have one cause motherfucker is a 500-year-old puppet, he's mentally an adult, physically an adult that was prepared for archon duties.

Sorry, i droned on about this for so long but i just fuckkking hate it when people are wrong. So blindly like you are,

here's proof that you said that, incase you go on a deleting frenzy.

Now let's talk about the point system, point systems are so widespread in real life and in fiction, even i used a point system once before. So to see it, in a COMPETITION(cause they are in the pervy AU) between men isn't weird to see. If you genuinely had a problem with this, Kin would've LOVED to talk it out with you as they're lovely and understanding human being.

the stray cat au? i even remember reading about it on both of your blogs but heres the thing.... the last time they wrote about it was in October.. of last year.

i had to search your blog just in case i was wrong in thinking they wrote it before you did.

as you can see, this is march of this YEAR. checking your archive, you made your blog back in February of this year. To claim they stole your concept of stray cat is beyond fucking insane, as well as bringing up the post with scaramouche in it cause.. that was over at least 10 months ago, cause Kin had went on a hiatus when December came around and came back with a COD hyperfixtation.

Onto the stealing the hubull concept! Searching their blog I can't find any evidence of them even writing a bull-like idea, at all. So you seemed to pull that one straight out of your ass.

So let's go over this real quick! one more time for the people in the back!!!

@simonrileyscockring made a post vagueing that someone stole their concepts and ideas, @/konigsblog replies below asking, hey who is it? maxim responds saying its @frogchiro and claiming that they wrote about a teenager and stole their point system for an au. Publicly. Instead of going to Frogchiro and trying to work it out, like a 23-year-old should. You keep drilling on about it, claiming that people trying to defend them are being your entertainment now

sure some people shouldn't have come in attacking you, i won't defend people who throw cruel words at you. You can claim this to be an attack but all i'm doing is calling you out, cause as you claim "it doesn't affect the way you live your life" you let it go and ruin someone else's way of life, destroying their love for fandom and writing. As a writer yourself that ive SEEN struggle with motivation AND hate anons, you of ALL people should fucking understand that getting your love for writing ruined is a terrible thing to happen especially when its an outlet for stress.

"i wanna talk shit in peace, not have my shit gossiped about." .. that is noooot how the internet works OR how shit-talking works, as the biggest shit-talker in MY family, i understand that when i talk shit, there's another person behind me talking shit. When YOU post vagueing about someone, and then continue talking about them, people will gossip about you. End of story. You should've blocked them in the first place, you also should've messaged Kongisblog PRIVATELY if you really wanted to avoid all of them. The only screenshots that i know that kin was sent, were you confirming that they "stole" your ideas and that they wrote about a teenager. How can they refute your claims without knowing what your claims are. They had to defend themselves from people in their inbox.

So, really in the end here, you fucked up. As a previous fan of your im highly disappointed in you but seeing how you act i doubt that will affect you, i make this post-DEFENDING frogchiro from pointless claims, AND in hopes that anyone who wants to follow you. Will find this post cause you are a fucking asshole to the core. Step back and realize that while it may not affect you, your actions affect others.

#call of duty x reader #call of duty modern warfare #cod mw2 x reader #call of duty headcanons #abo 141 #141 abo #pervy 141 #cod modern warfare #cod x reader #call of duty mw2 x reader #simon riley x reader #johnny mactavish x reader #kyle garrick x reader #john price x reader #phillip graves x reader #alejandro vargas x reader #rodolfo parra x reader

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katnissdoesnotfollowback · 4 months

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kdnfb's Ten Years of Fancition Mania

Featuring: Lay Me Down, Let Me Dream

Summary: Katniss and Peeta share a bond so strong, even death cannot defy it. When tragedy threatens to separate them forever, Peeta risks his soul to save Katniss from an eternity of despair. Inspired by the book, What Dreams May Come by Richard Matheson and the movie by the same name, starring Robin Williams, Cuba Gooding Jr. and Annabella Sciorra. Written for Prompts in Panem, Real or Not Real: Everlark Dreamscape Week, Spring 2015

Rating: M for Major Character Deaths, Minor Character Deaths, Suicide, Afterlife, Heaven, Hell, Reincarnation (Literally Everybody Dies)...

A/N: First of all, I co-wrote this story with titaniasfic what feels like forever and an age ago. Second of all, we mean those warning tags. This story is not for the faint of heart. That being said, Lay Me Down, Let Me Dream holds a special place in my heart as the first multichapter story I finished, and a lot of that is due to my co-author. We both brought our betas at the time on board to help with the project, edited each other's work and found a kind of synergy in creation that I can't even imagine recreating, and we pushed each other to get through to the end, which wasn't an easy feat.

Somewhere in the middle of writing LMD, I was in an awful car wreck, which... if you know the plot, you know why that's ironic and a little disturbing. My car was totaled, the entire front end scattered in pieces across the road, and I spent a couple weeks high on pain meds and muscle relaxers. My back was left in bad shape, until a different injury years later got me into physical therapy and they somehow managed to deal with the damage from both. And after the accident, there were still about three chapters to write (I think. I can't be sure. See the note about being high on pain meds and muscle relaxers).

Still, even with that, and everything else the two of us had going on in life, somehow we planned, wrote, and finished the entire story in roughly a month. Five chapters in five days, one on the makeup day, and the final chapter shortly thereafter. AND I still to this day think this is some of my strongest Everlark writing.

Banner at the top was made for Lay Me Down, Let Me Dream by the insanely talented and lovely @akai-echo. And yes, LMD is a soulmates au. So if you're brave enough to try it...

Lay Me Down, Let Me Dream on AO3

<3 kdnfb

#major character deathSSSSSS #emphasis on the plural there #words are peetas thing not mine #ten years of fanfiction mania #lay me down let me dream

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deathfavor · 1 year

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BABY I’M THE REASON WHY BAD’S SO FUN

#YEETS THIS OUT THERE #you're free to reblog this if you want tbh #i just like how this turned out #and wanted to share #᛭ — [VISAGE] violence clawing at the soul [KAZUTORA HANEMIYA ]#᛭ — [VISAGE] bearer of sin and punishment [SHUJI HANMA]#᛭ — [MY EDITS] creations brought to life #esp since im not usually happy with my edits-

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oc-challenges · 1 year

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WELCOME TO THE OC HALLOWEEN CHALLENGE!

Calling all the monsters, it's time for the OC 2023 Halloween Challenge! This challenge has been hauntin' you for five years, and we're wantin' you to participate!

If you're new here, here's what you need to know: This is an event that takes place over the 31 days of October and presents oc creators with Halloween-themed challenges to get the creative juices dancing. It is open to creations for both fanfiction and original ocs, and if you want to participate you don't have to every one or even in order. It is brought to you by @purpleyearning / @aliverse, @elmunson, and includes suggestions by members of our discord! (special thanks to @endless-hoppington for helping with some descs)

Rules

DO NOT copy others edits.

If you are doing crossovers, PLEASE make sure that the creator of the other oc is okay with crossovers.

If you want your post to be reblogged onto this blog, it must contain the hashtag ohc2023.

Feel free to ask questions, I promise I’m more treat than trick.

Everything is up to the creators interpretation, although I have tried to include some examples for help!

Have fun!

RANDOM/THEMELESS (1st–5th) Some of the challenges that don't coincide with each other.

Day One: Life In Plastic

It's fantastic! Is your OC more of a Barbie or a Bratz? Maybe they go to Monster High, or they're an American Girl Doll with an inspiring story? Perhaps you want to make a Funko version of your OC? To put it simply, this day is about dolls as an ode to the best movie of 2023; Barbie.

Day Two: Lights, Camera, Action!

For day two, we're combining oc as canon, oc as celebrity, and oc's social media into one day where you get to choose which of those challenges you would like to do... maybe even all of them!

Day Three: Born In The Wrong Century

Movies depend on a lot of things, but time and place helps create the ominous feel for it. Like Crimson Peak that belongs to the revival gothic period of 1880s or Jason Voorhees waking up on a spaceship in the year of 2455, give your character(s) a new decade to explore and even monsters to face.

Day Four: Twisted

From reality episodes where two people experience switching roles with one another to an alternative reality where their roles are different from their home's universe, make your character experience life through a whole new perspective by making your hero the villain or your villain the hero.

Day Five: Vampires, Werewolves, and Witches... Oh My!

From Godzilla to Dracula to The Mummy, the monster-verse is rich with lore. Today we focus on those monsters that never go out of style, after all they’re called classics for a reason. Is your oc Frankenstein or his monster?

OH, YOU WANNA PLAY PSYCHO KILLER? CAN I BE THE HELPLESS VICTIM? (6th–12th) Due to its popularity last year, we're bringing back the horror character tropes week.

Day Six: The Harmless Antagonist

Ah, a classic in more than just horror; the mean gorgeous holier-than-thou character; more specifics of this are often The Jock, The Cheerleader, The “Slut”, The Bitch, The Rich Kid, etc. While they may annoy the main character or make their everyday life difficult with academic rivalry or teasing, they’re really nothing compared to the new enemy; the thing or person killing everyone. Which one of your ocs is getting brutally knocked down a peg… or the stairs?

Day Seven: The Comedic Relief

Honestly, they make even the scariest movies bearable. They're almost never the main character but almost always the most liked. They say laughter is medicine for the soul, so which of your ocs soothes the characters and the situation with a joke made at the worst of times?

Day Eight: The Denier/Non-Believer/Skeptic

It doesn’t matter the subgenre, there’s always one. They don’t believe a killers out to get them or their friends despite the fast growing pile of bodies, they claim there’s a natural explanation for the supernatural event terrorizing everyone, they just refuse to get with the program. This often combines with the cop or older-than-everyone-else character. Which one of your ocs will get killed by their stubborness before their loyalty?

Day Nine: The Harbinger

We hear about omens of death in every kind of mythology. Irish folklore warns you of hearing the wailing woman and German myth tells you to never find your doppelganger. Even Western Society in America will drift from their path if they see a black cat on the way. So which of your ocs stands outside of the haunted house and tells the redheaded twins “you’re going to die in there”?

Day Ten: The Accomplice

You never saw it coming, but you should’ve. There’s not just one killer you have to worry about, there’s two. This is the person whose been helping the killer since the very beginning, pretending to be your friend the entire time until the plot reached its rising action. You’re heart broken and the very ground shakes under your feet, the good person you once thought you knew is gone… or worse, had never truly existed. Which of your ocs is not only willing to help a friend hide the body, but kill it too?

Day Eleven: The Killer

They’re haunted and bloodthirsty, compelling in a dangerous way. Everyone has a monster within but due to some tragic backstory of abuse, hate, or ridicule, these people – or things– let the monster win. Whether they done a mask or turn your dreams into sentient nightmares, they’re the main reason why anybody shows up to movie night. Which one of your ocs looks into the reflection of the knife in their hand, and pictures themselves chopping up human bodies instead of vegetables?

Day Twelve: The Final Girl

It’s all come down to this, the last stand. There’s two people left, or at least two important people left; the killer and the final girl. She’s fought tooth and nail, and grief has made way for rage. At first she was just another potential victim, now she’s in the killers way and she won’t go down easy. In the beginning she just wanted to survive, but like Laurie Strode now she wants revenge. Which oc becomes the monsters monster?

WRONG PLACE, WRONG TIME We're exploring classic horror locations. Throw your ocs into a horror story that take place in these locations, or make up your own story.

Day Thirteen: Have Killer Fun At Summer Camp! (Location: Summer Camp)

It's Friday The Thirteenth... literally. For today, the location is a summer camp like the one Jason Voorhees terrorizes. Counselor, killer, or camper? Whatever role your oc plays, they certainly didn't read this in the brochure.

Day Fourteen: Vacation Nightmares (Location: Hotel/Island/AirBnB, etc.)

An island that magically speeds up your aging, a hotel with corridors that lead to nowhere, a psychotic airbnb host; Today is about horror in locations that are supposed to be a break from the horror of everyday life, but instead introduces you to whole new horrors.

Day Fifteen: Home Is Where The Haunt Is (Location: House or Apartment)

A home can be a place to make memories and some memories leave a scar. Focus on your characters when a place they call home is threatened.

Day Sixteen: She Doesn't Like It In The Barn (Location: Farm/Ranch)

Samara Morgan was forced to stay in the barn's hayloft to keep her burning images out of her adoptive parents minds. Framer Graham Hess had to defend his home and family from aliens that threatened to kill his son. Pearl craved to be a movie star and experienced a psychotic break where she killed those who denied her her dream. What deadly passages does the farm bestow to your characters?

Day Seventeen: Death is a Mystery and Burial is a Secret (Location: Cemetery or Tomb)

Cemeteries and tombs are the places we put our loved ones to rest, but in horror movies we find that final resting places are not so restful after all. Whether it’s ghosts, zombies, psychotic gravekeepers, or grave robbers ensuring no witnesses; how do your ocs go from mourning to trying to survive until morning?

Day Eighteen: What's The Opposite Of Miracles? (Location: Places of Worship)

Places of worship are supposed to be places of good, where people go for guidance and safety, places full of good beings and devoid of sin. But what if the bad beings sneak in or the sinless place is just a hiding place for those full of sin?

Day Nineteen: This Won't Hurt A Bit (Location: Hospital and/or Asylum)

In season two of American Horror Story, we were welcomed to Briarcliff, an asylum that became ‘home’ to the misunderstood and the criminally insane. Much like other hospitals of the past, many attempts of healing were there to disguise the evil hiding in plain sight. How does your character deal when the place that was supposed to heal them becomes the place that harms them?

Day Twenty: The Trees Have Eyes (Location: The Woods/Forest)

Shadows of the trees cast illusions, the cracking of sticks cause hairs on the back of your neck stand. The wind howls which sounds of a voice, and the birds no longer sing. The woods are creepy, desolate, and you find yourself lost in the sea of their trunks. What happens when your ocs are stuck in the woods?

RANDOM OUTLIER

Day Twenty-One: I Want To Play A Game

Some of the most recent hits in horror history have been not movies, books, or shows, but video games. From Dead By Daylight to Until Dawn, horror fans have been able to experience immersion at a whole new level by trying to make all the right choices as a character. Now, it's time to put your oc into a horror game AU. Will they live, or will they die? Only their stats and choices will tell.

STRANGER THINGS HAVE HAPPENED (22nd–27th) Character tropes are fun and all, but for the next six days we're focusing on genre tropes.

Day Twenty-Two: Solitude Causes More Wounds Than It Was Meant To Heal (Trope: Isolation)

Fear is increased when one is alone by themselves, or cut off from civilization like an reclusive island. Focus on your characters in the horror of isolation; are they forced to recognize who they truly are on the inside? Do they practice the law of nature or nurture? Do they keep their morals or own laws?

Day Twenty-Three: The Apocalypse Is The Best Thing That Ever Happened To Me (Trope: Apocalyptic)

Just as everything must begin, it also must end. This, unfortunately, includes humanity. What will happen when the world as your oc knows it ends, when that world goes from millions of people to tens or perhaps even one? Will they be forced to adapt, doomed to die, or perhaps even thrive?

Day Twenty-Four: You've Killed Me Before (Trope: Time Loop)

The best thing about the sun setting is that it will come up again in the morning, and a new day will begin. But what if the sun comes up and an old day begins? Whether your oc must solve their own murder, solve somebody else’s murder, or face difficult truths about those around them, it’s time to put them into a time loop.

Day Twenty-Five: Better You Die Than I (Trope: Doppleganger)

In real life, seeing your “doppleganger” is said to be an omen of misfortune or good luck. In horror movies, dopplegangers usually take a more direct approach in ruining the lives of their lookalike. Whether they’re an omen of bad things to come or trying to steal ones life, give your oc a doppleganger and explore the horrors of a stranger that shares your face.

Day Twenty-Six: No Wonder Everyone Keeps Invading You (Trope: Extraterrestrial)

Whether your oc was a believer before or not, life from another planet has arrived to Earth on this day. These so-called aliens come in all shapes, sizes, and colors; They can even come in a human disguise, as a deadly plant, as a machine, or even as little green men. No matter where they came from or what they look like, humanity is not ready for them. Whether we try to hurt them or they try to hurt us, how does your oc deal with extraterrestrial life on Earth and the problems this arrival presents?

Day Twenty-Seven: All Politics Is A Personality Cult Now (Trope: Cult)

What simply starts as a simple dinner meal, a visit to a secluded area where people celebrate, or deciding to reunite with the estranged side of your family, can easily be your steps toward a cult. Have your characters fight to stay alive against those who have welcomed them with sinister intent.

COSTUMES TELL A STORY

Day Twenty-Eight: Let's Be Weird Together

We all know of an iconic squad that so many people are just dying to be a part of. Well, it’s your ocs and their friends chance! Day 28 is group costumes!

Day Twenty-Nine: That Could Be Us

Love isn’t in the air but maybe it’s in the fabric of costumes! It’s time for couples costumes!

Day Thirty: I Can Be Anybody I Wanna Be

If your oc could be anybody, who would they wanna be? Well, for one night only, they can be! It's time for your oc to dress up!

TRICK OR TREAT!

Day Thirty-One: I'm Just Here For The Boos

Halloween is a time for tricks and treats, for ghost to walk among the living and us to disguise ourselves. But it can be killer, and the transference of evil can be achieved. Give your shape to another, gift them and you shall receive in turn. Ocpotluck awaits.

#origin post #ocappreciation #allaboutocs #h: 2023 #ohc2023 #halloween challenge #tw flashing lights #flashing lights tw #admin: ali

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certifiedfreec · 7 months

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“It seems as though Shelley insists the true monstrosity lies in humanity rather than Frankenstein’s creation.”

“Well, yeah, the monster was left completely alone because the doctor couldn’t bear to look at him after he brought him to life.” You vigorously wipe down one of the tables in the nearly empty coffee shop as you answer the sole guest that’s left. “It upset him a lot. He even says something to him like, ‘I ought to be thy Adam, but I am rather the fallen angel.’”

“Hm.” A thoughtful pause. “‘Satan had his companions, fellow-devils, to admire and encourage him; but I am solitary and abhorred.’” Grey eyes skim the quote’s faded page, large hands clasping the worn cover. A prized first-edition print he had quietly boasted about earlier that evening. “It’s as if the doctor was so blinded by his need for recognition that he failed to recognize the potential consequences of his experiment. Such hastiness. I’m curious as to what inspired him, or rather pushed him, to play God like that in the first place.”

Tossing the rag into a bucket of cleaning solution, you sigh amusedly. “Probably just entitlement. But anyway, Boss, shop’s closed. I’ll be happy to hear your musings again at 7 o’clock tomorrow morning.”

Truthfully, you didn’t mind this guy’s presence at all; he did this often, at least a couple of times a week when he could, staying for hours on end to delve into his books and pick your brain on their contents while sipping your coffee. It started a good bit ago, and the second he silently breezed through the shop’s door you had an inkling that you’d be seeing him a lot. He made note of a classic piece resting behind the counter that you’d brought from home that day, and the slow parts of your shifts were soon filled with rich discussion about the stories you’ve both read- a welcome break from the monotonous routine of pulling shots, steaming milk, and taking complaints from the middle-aged women who insisted they ordered their drink “extra hot.” Quickly, he grew to become your favorite regular; he had quite the heart for literature and art, and he was fairly easy on the eyes too.

He lets out an appreciative chuckle. “Well, I’ll be sure to remember my alarm, then.” His low voice has the heaviness of sincerity as he teases you, and you could almost swear it was flirting. He carefully closes the book before tucking it under his arm, standing to his full height. Albeit not the tallest, he’s still able to look down at you. “I’d quite like to hear your thoughts on Dr. Frankenstein’s innate motivations.”

You fight the blush that threatens to tinge your cheeks, halfway tempted to keep the doors unlocked just to talk to him some more. However, this could be a double-edged sword for you; you’d be here all night chatting with him if you allowed that discrepancy. Then you’d be too tired to comprehend all his reasonings the next morning when he’d want to debate all over again.

“I mean, I’ll be off in about fifteen minutes,” you blurt out, not fully realizing the forwardness of the unspoken invitation. An invitation that is met with surprise from your normally nonchalant regular.

There’s a small smirk tugging at the corners of his fine lips as his eyebrows raise slightly at you. “Very well. Where do you suggest we take this conversation, then?” He is all too impressed with this turn of events as he sets down his book to collect a few haphazard mugs, bringing them over to the sink for you. The small action, while also being another discrepancy, nearly makes you swoon. “On second thought, don’t answer that. I know just the place.”

Your heartbeat surges when you wonder about his implication, taking the mugs from him and plopping them into the soapy water. His stormy grey eyes watch you with interest as you take care of the nightly closing duties, cleaning the tableware before setting everything in its proper place.

“It better not be Frankenstein’s laboratory,” You halfway joke, curious as to how this night could unfold with the guy you’ve always regarded as the friendly yet handsome customer. Another part of you is wary, but he only shakes his head, sending the choppy black locks that framed his face into a gentle flurry of movement.

“No, nothing like that at all,” is all he answers with a reassuring smile and a chuckle. Concentration lost on what may lie ahead with him, you’re barely able to focus on counting out the register as you lock it up and grab your bag. “If you say so,” you reply with a small smile. With a flick of the light and his chivalrous door-holding, you’re both out of the shop and securing its entrance with your key before you turn to your good-looking regular.

“Where to, Boss?” You’d be lying if you said you weren’t a little nervous about venturing somewhere new with him.

“It’s a surprise, but I think you’ll like it.” His tone is genuine as his dark tresses flutter in the night’s breeze, walking beside you and guiding you toward a vibrant ramen joint nestled a couple streets away. “Oh, and don’t feel like you have to call me that. I’m Chrollo.”

Chrollo. What an interesting name- yet it fits him perfectly. You say it aloud, which seems to satisfy him. Moments later, you feel his hand cradle the small of your back with the same tenderness of his beloved book as you reach the restaurant’s doors, and it sends heat along the entirety of your skin. Part of you toys with the thought that this could be the beginning of a story of your own, bound in cloth and published in ink for you two to analyze over coffee later.

This creation might be much more beautiful than Frankenstein’s.

+ + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +

It’s a lovely evening as expected, and Chrollo drops you off at your doorstep with a warm promise to debate literature outside of your work hours again. He’s everything and then some- charming, collected, unafraid to banter with you, and part of you is honestly disappointed that the evening doesn’t escalate further. Still, you’re vibrating with giddiness, unable to rest as you think about your quasi-date with him, and you’re already imagining what kinds of stories you’ll talk about next.

After a few hours of finally sleeping, you’re awoken by a panicked call from one of your coworkers early that next morning. Something about the store’s register being wiped empty of its change, and that’s all you need to hear to be there in record time. Once you arrive, you scope the scene and the coffee shop is perfectly kept the way it was last night, save for the now desolate register. You inspect it carefully, shocked at how meticulously the cash had been removed, and the results of your search make your heart pound. The only items that surface are your door key along with small slip of paper with some elongated handwriting. It couldn’t be.

Your entire being blanches when you read the familiar words straight out of Shelley’s book:

“I seemed to have lost all soul or sensation but for this one pursuit.”

#i have such a thing with chrollo and frankenstein I don’t even know why #i love my war criminal #chrollo lucilfer #hunter x hunter #chrollo lucifer x reader #chrollo x reader #should i make a pt. 2 ???#ryn’s rambles #hxh chrollo #chrollo x you

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royallyprincesslilly · 1 year

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Title: The UnIntended Series {Book 1: UnExpected}

Okay, so I'm actually nervous to post this. It's wild. With my fanfiction, I don't really feel nervous having others read it, but this---😬.

Anyway, here is chapter 1. As of now, I'm not sure if I will post the 2nd one. Again it'll only be up for a day or two then I will delete it.

To anyone reading it please give me some feedback rather than a "like". I am partly using this as a focus group/beta read session so feedback is crucial. What did you think? Any part you liked or disliked? Would you want to continue it from the 1st chapter alone? If you came across it in a bookstore or Amazon, would you buy it?

Note I: This has NOT been edited beyond small grammatical issues. Also, I am not 100% sold on the name "Daryl" so don't let it be a hang-up.

Note II: Everything here has been officially copywritten so be careful, I'm the wrong one to try.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Prologue

He was my addiction. My cloudy sky. My stormy night my thunderstorms. He was my chocolate brownie with the chocolate ice cream on top. He was my passion my need my obsession. He was my poison. My sweet, delicious poison and I couldn't get enough--wouldn't get enough. I needed him like I needed air water food. It was never enough. His sex was killer, his kiss was sugar, and his body was the best creation made by the creator. His love was death. He was--my ruin.

Chapter 1

“Ughhhh, deeper, harder, uuuugh, yes. Right there, right there. Don’t stop! God, yes, yes, yes, yessssssssssssssssssss!”

Though my vocabulary was quite advanced, no other words could form. The sensations had taken on a life of their own.

“Oh shit, damn baby”.

He drops on the bed next to me panting heavily filling the air with our combined scent. I moan deeply still feeling the power of him between my thighs, “That was amazing La”, Daryl says using the name he’s always called me since college.

I remember the day we met in college like it was yesterday instead of the nearly eight years it actually had been. I was coming up the steps in the rec room not looking where I was going then bam I ran smack into him. At that time we were both kids, barely nineteen with plenty more to learn about the world and the affairs of the heart. When I looked at him it was all over, then when he smiled that lopsided, slick grin of his, I was a goner. Signed sealed delivered I was his. He must have known it too. There was no way he hadn’t because the smug look on his face said it all.

He’d said, “I haven’t ran into anyone as beautiful as you around here, I have to know your name”.

Boy was it a cheesy line, but I was nineteen after all and it was the flyest line I’d heard. I was his.

“You’re just going to leave me hanging?”

Daryl’s voice brought me out of my memory, a memory that was once your favorite but was slowly becoming one you wished you could forget. Looking over next to me, I find his dewy brown eyes staring into me with a questioning look.

“Oh I’m sorry my mind was wandering, it was amazing, but--,” I stretch out rolling onto my side and bring my hand to toned his chest. Slowly I trail my fingers down his smooth skin over each ab muscle, down past his mind dumbing oblique indentations to his still alert appendage. The moan that escaped him was a deep throaty one that said he was more than ready for round three.

Smiling, I lean closer slipping the tip of my tongue along the shell of his ear. “It’s always been amazing, I’m always amazing”, I say in a self-satisfied way before continuing to lick his ear.

“Mmm, you’re bad. Trying to start something?”

That same lopsided smirk decorated his lips and my belly flipped.

“Nope, who said we were done to begin with?”

Without missing a beat, Daryl crashed his full lips into mine, but it was me who took control of the kiss. The passion between us was evident and I was sure that if the room had smoke alarms we would have set them off. Another sensual moan escaped his lips which made my nether regions clench from the desire to have him nestled there again. Just as his movements became urgent and his kiss needy, a loud sound filled the silence pf the space.

Buzz, buzz. Buzz, buzz.

“Mmm, ignore it,” I coax continuing the pleasurable attack my hand was doping under the black sheet of Daryl’s bed.

“Ah, baby,” he groaned out as my finger glided across the smooth tip of his manhood.

With more urgency, Daryl pressed himself against me then brought his large hand to trace along the right side of my body until he cupped my breast.

“Mmm,” I say tightening the grip of my hand around him.

Daryl’s response was to tweak my sensitive and aching nipple between his thumb and forefinger. The action easily brought more moans of pleasure from my lips. It also served the purpose of distracting me. When I felt his other hand skim across my stomach then dip lower and lower the anticipation in me had my back arching off the bed.

Once he made it to the sweet spot between my thighs a high-pitched sigh escaped me. Within seconds he had me panting and mewling from the skill of his fingers and within seconds I needed more of him. Daryl was good at many things, but the one thing he excelled at hands down was his ability to get me from zero to one hundred in thirty seconds flat. It was a skill he’d developed in college and had never relented in holding the record for.

Buzz, Buzz. Buzz, buzz.

I felt the absence of him before he pulled away but when his hand left my body he spoke against my lips, “It could be work, La”.

In this very moment you didn’t give a flying fuck if it was work. Right now there were much more important matters at hand. That was all it took to spark my anger. It was a small action, but it spoke volumes and brought memories of other times before where he’d seemed so aloof. Using all the self-control I possessed coupled with some learned tricks to decelerate my emotions, I clenched my jaw and silently willed my anger to remain in check.

With my eyes glued to him, I watch on as he glances at his phone screen then types in the unlock code. When his face illuminates white from the screen, I continue to watch and crane my eyes to get a glimpse of his screen to see just what it was that had interrupted your moment. Almost as soon as it opens there is a picture of a pretty woman with her legs spread eagle butt naked.

“Oh”,” Daryl rushes out as he jerks from me. The sudden movement has him fumbling his phone but with a stroke of last-minute grace he holds it close to him, hiding it from me. Too late.

The tight hold I had on my anger was suddenly not enough to contain it. With almost inhumane speed, I bolted upright and glared at him sending a thousand hot blades through my eyes in his direction.

“What the hell was that!?”

The heat on my face quickly spread down my neck until my chest felt like I was standing in direct sunlight on the hottest day of summer.

Daryl shrugs, “Nothing”.

“Don’t nothing me, I saw that. Who is that”?

He reached over the bed and placed his phone on the bedside table. “I don’t know La. Must have been a wrong number. It’s nothing”.

My nose crinkled from the stench of his lie. They always had their own distinct scent. I always knew when he was lying and unfortunate he was lying more often than not. “

“Oh nothing? That’s nothing!? So, it’s nothing when you’re getting naked pictures while you’re in bed with me?”

I hadn’t meant to scream the words but once they were out they bounced off the walls, echoing in the room.

“La, calm down,” Daryl cautiously encouraged, “She’s no one.”

Suddenly I felt as if I was going to be sick. The tight knot in my stomach spasmed, a familiar feeling. “No one! So if she’s no one, then what am I?”

Daryl rolled his eyes, and sighed in the exaggerated way he did when he was annoyed with the direction something had taken, “God here we go”.

When he dropped back onto the bed, you bolted to your feet. He was annoyed? Shit, I was past annoyed right now and I had every right to be.

“Yes here we do, Daryl. What the hell is wrong with you? Who is that woman and why is she sending you naked pictures?”

Silence filled the space as he laid there staring into the ceiling completely ignoring me. He knew how much I hated it when he did this. I was convinced he did it because I hated it so much. I didn’t want to go irate right now, but I was seconds away from going atomic.

“Hello!”

Another sigh came from him before he sat up and reached for me. With his hand inches from my breast I leaned back and slapped it away. It was supposed to be a regular hit but because of my anger it was much more than a regular hit. It was a hard one that made the sting from it ricochet through your hand.

“You know what, fuck you Daryl.”

Without missing a beat, I turned and walked to the chair across the room where my clothes were currently draped over. It was time to go. I shouldn’t have even been here to begin with. Keeping my back to him I began putting on my clothes.

“Unfuckinbelivable! Every time is the same mess. The same thing!”

Angrily slinging my shirt over my head I do my best to keep the tears pricking my eyes away. I was tired of crying, tired of this circle.

“Don’t do this La,” Daryl began, his voice smooth as a hustler on the corner trying to upsell some weed, “Listen her name is Marcella, and we were hanging out a while back. That’s it, we haven’t in weeks though.”

Spinning around to face him my eyes narrowed, “Weeks? We’ve been fucking for years Daryl. We’ve been going around this for years. Years! Unbelievable. Oh La, I miss you, I love you, I’m going to change I promise, it’s just you. Bullshit!”

I felt so stupid to have believed his lies, to have expected anything to change. I felt dumb being here right now. My anger had morphed into hurt and it was becoming harder and harder to fight back the tears. I should have known nothing had changed, that nothing would have changed. Deep down I knew it was the same bullshit. Every time I looked in the mirror I saw the truth shining back at me. I had been stupid for a long time.

I watch as Daryl slinks across the room to me with a somber look on his face that I knew was an act. For it to be real he had to feel remorse, an emotion you doubted he even fathomed. Raising my hands I try to keep him at bay because I know if he touches me even a little bit my anger will falter, and he will turn it all around. I didn’t want him to placate me with lies any longer.

“Don’t touch me.”

“Now I can’t touch you? Come on, you love when I touch you.”

He laced his fingers with mine before he pulled me closer to him. “I’m the only one that makes you feel good,” he cooed, “The only one that knows how to touch you.”

For emphasis, Daryl brought his hand around to cup my ass in a way that also brought my leg up to wrap around his waist. Groaning, I pressed my palm to his torso trying to push him off, but he wouldn’t budge. “I’m the only one that makes you drip”, he says his voice dropping to an impossibly deep baritone that instantly proved his words true. It was a voice I had always been utterly powerless against.

I hated his cockiness, hated that there was even an ounce of truth to his words, hated that he had me right where he wanted me.

“Stop it Daryl, I’m not playing.”

“Neither am I,” he said against your ear making you shiver. “I haven’t seen her in weeks. As I said, it’s nothing.”

With that, he tipped my chin up, so I looked into his eyes and just like that, it was over. “I want you”.

I searched his eyes for lies though I knew the lies were to be found on his lips instead. I searched frantically and desperately but there were no lies in his eyes.

“You La. Just you.”

His lips crashed into mine, pulling me into a soul sucking kiss. Soul sucker. That was exactly what he is. Soul sucker. I knew he was full of shit; I knew it yet still I allowed him to kiss me, allowed him the time to worm him hands along my body until I felt his fingers creep up my skirt where I am bare and wet. Wet from wanting him, needing him. Damn it! I hated this; I hated him. A moan filled the room, and I am annoyed to realize it was mine.

Traitor. My body was a traitor, always had been. Daryl lifted me and instinctively my other leg wrapped around his waist. When his mouth moved to my neck the hard press of his girth between my thighs sends my head flying back giving him complete access to the spot he loved to exploit and that was when I knew it.

Fuck! It’s over.

Once he has my back slammed against the wall, he follows suit but grinding his hips against me so I can feel the thing I crave. Without warning, he then slams into me with all the strength and force his powerful body holds. The action pulls a scream from your lips. It’s a scream that is raspy and high pitched all at once, a scream that never stood a chance of ending because before it could, he snapped his lips forward again reminding me that every word he spoke before was true.

“Aaah!”

The force of Daryl’s hips slams into me over and over, harder, and harder until I am seeing stars and unable to catch my breath. All I can do is hold onto him for dear life and pray to whoever was watching this show that you wouldn’t be forever scared by this man.

“You’re mine La!”

Slam.

“Mine!”

Slam.

“--Have been since you were nineteen and will always be mine,” he added, his lips brushing your ear, so you didn’t miss one word.

Slowing down, Daryl circled his hips again nudging your g-spot until you were sure you were going to pass out. In seconds you were clenching around him giving him the satisfaction of knowing you were powerless to him.

“This sweet spot is mine, Leianna, cause I do it the best. Me!”

The possessiveness in his voice could not be missed. He always did get off on claiming ownership. He loved it when I told him I belonged to him, loved when I bore his markings on my skin for others to see, and loved I went out smelling like him. This was nothing different. My eyes rolled to the back of my head as he overwhelmed me with the barrage of thrusts that served as nothing more than way to mark you, brand you as his.

Another orgasm claimed me sweeping me up into the frenzy of need that tied us together.

Bringing his hand to your throat he held you there against the wall making you moan louder and clench harder around him. “Say my name La, say it!”

He knew I liked it when he got rough. Fuck him, I thought as another moan fell from my lips. I hated him but I was loving every second of the pleasure he brought me through this show of assertion he was putting on, loved the feel of him pounding into me, trying to mark me. Fuck him and damn me, I loved it all.

“Say it,” Daryl badgered adding a slight amount of pressure. Not enough to hurt me but it was enough to make me wetter.

“Daryl,” I gasp out of breath as he keeps pounding into me against his wall.

“Whose is it? Who does it belong to?”

The air around us has become so thick that catching a breath is nearly impossible and the lack of oxygen has my head spinning.

“Whose!”

His shout brings me back to the moment. our eyes linger and I watch as his mouth falls open clearly enraptured with the pleasure he was finding in me.

“Yours. Shit Daryl, it’s yours, always has been, yes, yes, yes!”

I feel the tint of shame wash over me. Shame for saying the words, shame for allowing him to put me in this situation, shame for never wanting him to stop fucking me, shame for wanting to stay in this bubble for as long as possible because it would mean he would stay here with me in this moment away from his lies and away from his asshole moves.

Digging my nails into his shoulder I aim to hurt him and with his shout I am pleased to know that I have. With one final thrust that sends my head banging into the wall, Daryl fills me, marking me as we both find our release. For long moments we clutch one another panting as we slowly come down from the euphoria of our bodies connecting, the euphoria I had only ever found in him.

When I am coherent enough I realize that Daryl had moved us back to the bed. I feel his lips press to my jaw, then my neck before he pulls away from my body and walks away toward the bathroom. I take another steadying breath then see him grab his phone from the nightstand before disappearing into the bathroom. Again the knot in my stomach spasms and I feel sick to my stomach as utter disgust and self-loathing washes over me. I was stupid, so stupid. I knew it, and he must have known it too because he knew he had me, he knew it.

The stinging of my tears pushed me into action. Standing on wobbly legs I took a moment to steady myself then fixed the clothes I was wearing. I approached the chair again to finish dressing then dug a note card from my purse and wrote across it with the red lipstick he liked so much. Gathering my things I walked to the bed ignoring the crumpled sheets and placed the notecard on his pillow. Looking around I took a moment to make sure I had everything then walked through the bedroom door towards the door.

I didn’t look back. What was the purpose of doing so? I walked with my head high and spine straight with a head filled with vows to never return but your heart whispered into the abyss of your pain that you’d be back.

#original fiction #novel sample

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