#deadly delusion [GREY]

[vs-impostor]

good lird..

[coralinnii]

Riddle Rosehearts (Frankenstein monster!Riddle x apprentice!Yuu)

genre: horror, angst

note: mentions of d*ath, mentions of heavy medical crimes and illegal harvesting,

summary: He was a monstrosity. A freak of nature and you fear the man before you, even if he was someone you once loved.

series index

It was a one-in-a-million chance for this to be a success. He was called a medical miracle who survived through incredible odds.

The son of the renowned Rosehearts couple was caught in a deadly accident, leaving him with non-functional organs and severely damaged nerves. First responders were sure he would be dead by the time he reached his family’s private hospital. But, Mrs. Rosehearts announced that her son was alive and breathing. He made it.

…Supposed something made it.

“My love,” the redhead lovingly caressed your hands as you sat by his private room, as per his request. You fought the urge to vomit as you saw his stitches on his arms that pull the skin together. “Thank you for visiting me. You must have been busy”

Typically you would be, being the apprentice to Riddle’s mother in hopes to gain experience in the medical field. It was how you met Riddle and you two began a relationship without his mother’s knowledge.

“Of course, I would” you forced a smile to which the boy laying in bed responded with his own, his grey eyes crinkled along his smile which stretched the scarring across his face.

How you wish to believe this was your Riddle. Despite the burns and scars, he looked exactly like your beloved and he maintained the memories of your time together. But your mind was sending alarms in you, telling you to wake up from your delusions. He was not your lover, but a monster.

A monster you had a hand in making as you listened to your mentor’s commands to sneak into the morgue at night. You were driven by love and guilt to save Riddle no matter the cost. Afterall, he protected you during that fateful day which led to his condition now. So despite your oath, you helped Riddle’s mother in retrieving organs to replace the ones that her son was missing.

Heart, blood, lungs, skin, eyes. You discarded your own morality to desecrate your former patients in hopes to revive your beloved. His death, be damned.

You were as desperate as they were, but even Riddle’s parents could see your wavering resolve and threatened to destroy you should you tell anyone of the crime committed in their hospital. To them, you were just a scared apprentice not willing to go against the Rosehearts family, unaware of your own hidden motives to save their son.

“We just need to find more skin to hide the scars, and he’ll be perfect just like before” your mother whispered to you as she eyed the patients that came into the hospital that day, finding the right “benefactor”. You tried your best to help those who came to the Rosehearts hospital, looking to be saved. But now, they are donors, whether they realize it or not.

But, the Rosehearts were right. You were weak and your weakness was tearing you apart with every moment you spent with Riddle in his room. Your guilt ate away at you whenever he pulled you into a hug, where you can hear his heartbeat from the heart you stole. One of his eyes was from a young patient who recently passed. You remembered how that same patient laughed with you when you mentioned how her eyes remind you of your lover. Instead of grief, you gave half-hearted condolences to the family while planning your visit to the coroner’s office to falsify records of her autopsy.

“Love!” Riddle called out to you, bringing you out from your spiraling thoughts. “Why are you crying?”

The revived man reached out to wipe your cheeks, where you finally registered the wetness of your face and your stinging eyes. Weeks of dissociating yourself from reality has finally worked against you as you physically reached your limit. His hands felt different from what you’re used to. You recognized the skin of his hands as the same you scalped from one of your visits to the cold morgue.

Tears continued to fall as you broke down in your seat, as the panicked redhead tried to console his lover, oblivious to the atrocities done by you and his parents, the very people whom he trusts with his life.

He became a monster, and so did you.

[pagebypagereviews]

Exploring the Labyrinth of the Mind: The Most Popular Psychological Thrillers The realm of psychological thrillers is a dark and twisted space, where the exploration of the human psyche takes precedence, leading viewers and readers on a journey through the intricate mazes of the mind. This genre, blending elements of mystery, drama, and often horror, delves deep into the complexities of human emotions, motivations, and the often blurry line between perception and reality. The most popular psychological thrillers captivate audiences with their intricate plots, complex characters, and the unsettling feeling that what you see might not always be the truth. Defining the Psychological Thriller Before diving into the examples that have defined the genre, it's crucial to understand what sets psychological thrillers apart from other forms of thriller or horror media. At its core, a psychological thriller focuses on the state of mind of its characters, often exploring themes of identity, reality, perception, and the human condition. Unlike traditional thrillers, which might rely more heavily on action or physical danger, psychological thrillers are more concerned with the internal conflicts of their characters, creating tension and suspense from the mental and emotional struggles within. The Pillars of Psychological Thrillers Several key elements are quintessential to the psychological thriller genre: Unreliable Narrators: These stories often feature protagonists whose credibility is compromised, creating a sense of uncertainty and unpredictability. Twisted Plots: Complex and often nonlinear storylines that challenge the audience's perception and keep them guessing until the very end. Dark and Moody Atmospheres: A hallmark of the genre, these settings contribute to the overall sense of unease and tension. Exploration of Mental Illness: Many psychological thrillers delve into the realms of mental illness, blurring the lines between reality and delusion. Moral Ambiguity: Characters in these stories often exist in a grey area of morality, making it difficult for the audience to distinguish between heroes and villains. Iconic Examples of Psychological Thrillers Throughout the years, several films and books have come to define the psychological thriller genre, each contributing in its own unique way to the exploration of the human psyche. Films Psycho (1960): Directed by Alfred Hitchcock, this classic film set the standard for psychological thrillers, introducing audiences to the complex relationship between Norman Bates and his mother. Se7en (1995): A dark and gritty tale of two detectives on the trail of a serial killer whose crimes are based on the seven deadly sins, exploring themes of sin, guilt, and redemption. Black Swan (2010): This film delves into the psyche of a ballet dancer consumed by her dual role in "Swan Lake," exploring themes of obsession, perfection, and identity. Gone Girl (2014): Based on the novel by Gillian Flynn, this story of a woman's disappearance and the subsequent media frenzy and police investigation explores themes of media manipulation, the facade of the perfect marriage, and the dark side of human nature. Books "Shutter Island" by Dennis Lehane (2003): A U.S. Marshal investigates the disappearance of a patient from a hospital for the criminally insane but finds himself questioning his own sanity. "Gone Girl" by Gillian Flynn (2012): The novel behind the successful film, this book offers a deeper dive into the complexities of its characters and the unsettling dynamics of their marriage. "The Girl on the Train" by Paula Hawkins (2015): Through the eyes of an unreliable narrator, this story unravels a complex web of deceit, love, and memory. "Big Little Lies" by Liane Moriarty (2014): While not a psychological thriller in the traditional sense, this novel explores the psychological dynamics of a group of women entangled in a murder investigation. The Impact of Psychological Thrillers The popularity of psychological thrillers speaks to their profound impact on audiences and readers.

These stories do more than entertain; they challenge us to question our perceptions of reality and morality. They reflect our deepest fears and anxieties, often leaving us with more questions than answers. In doing so, psychological thrillers hold up a mirror to society, exploring the darkest corners of the human mind and the secrets we keep hidden. Why We Are Drawn to Psychological Thrillers There's a certain allure to the psychological thriller genre that draws people in. Perhaps it's the thrill of the unknown, the excitement of trying to solve the puzzle before the protagonist does, or the fascination with the darker aspects of human nature. Psychological thrillers satisfy our curiosity about the mind and its workings, offering a safe space to explore our fears and anxieties. They remind us of the complexity of human emotions and the unpredictability of life itself. Conclusion: The Enduring Appeal of Psychological Thrillers The most popular psychological thrillers have left an indelible mark on the landscape of film and literature, captivating audiences with their intricate plots, complex characters, and profound explorations of the human psyche. These stories challenge us to look beyond the surface, to question our perceptions and assumptions about reality, identity, and morality. As we continue to navigate the complexities of the human mind, the psychological thriller genre stands as a testament to our endless fascination with what lies beneath the facade of normalcy. In the end, these stories resonate because they reflect our deepest fears, desires, and the unending quest to understand the enigma of the human condition.

[wlwaristotle]

10 minute stream of consciousness free write

I sit on the wooden bench in front of the school’s bicycle parking area. The air is cool, the breeze is not quite blustery, and the temperature is ever so slightly colder than the sensation of walking into an air-conditioned mall on a blazing summer day. The clouds are so abundant that it seems like there are no clouds at all. The sun is visible but obscured under a hazy sheen–I imagine the sun to be a little three dimensional ball of molten, freshly gathered in an ice-cream scoop and violently hurled onto the canvas that is the sky. The sky, that looks so incredibly bleak. And the canvas, slathered over with depressing grey paint, is void of substance, of form, and of character. Perhaps the sky’s lack of character is its character–like that boring kid from primary school who always sat in the back of the classroom, or that disinterested kid who never made eye contact with anyone. If you--vaguely at least--formed an impression of someone in your mind, that’s the characterlessness constructing character. The sky seems to me to be drenched in a pensive melancholy; it is not entirely lifeless, but not entirely full of life either. She’s thinking, she’s thinking. She’s thinking real deep. Or perhaps she delusions herself into thinking that she is thinking deep, when in fact, she is not. Or maybe the ‘fact’ is that she is thinking so as to ceaselessly circulate in a shallow pool of stagnant water, mistakenly thinking she is spiralling deeper into some profound abyss of loneliness that grants her the luxury of prideful solitude. Perhaps she considers herself to be on an exotic expedition, reserved only for those who, like herself, are specially designated to be predisposed to a deadly state of silent tempestuous turmoil. Perhaps she revels in her self-constructed esteem arising from the conviction that she thinks deep, distracting herself from the immutable self-perception of inadequacy and incapability. The substance of the scribe’s pen continuously explodes onto the page like a woman's water breaking, up until the ink on the page inevitably fades and falters like the scribe herself. (my pen literally just ran out of ink while writing this in my journal lol so i had to end it like this rip)

[lesetoilesfous]

Sending you a prompt from the Bad Things Happen Bingo! I'd be interested to see what you do with "Defeated and Trophified", for either a negative Handers OR an Evil M!Hawke. Thank you! <3

Oooh thank you so much, I hope you enjoy!

(If you’d like me to write you a dragon age fic, send me a prompt from here!)

@dadrunkwriting @badthingshappenbingo

Fandom: Dragon Age 2

Pairing: dark, abusive Handers

Characters: Garrett Hawke, Anders, Alistair Theirin

Tags: post da2, evil Hawke, implied abusive relationship

Rating: Mature

The new viscount of Kirkwall has made changes at the Keep, and indeed in the city in general. No longer are there any mages to be found anywhere, not even in the city-state’s infamous Gallows. Alistair had been struck by how few staves he’d seen anywhere as a result. He realises that he’d just sort of got used to apostates and presumably-legal Circle mages wandering throughout Fereldan. The absence of them here in Kirkwall is, well, stark. But Alistair is a king, and visiting his new trading partner is not the most burdensome of his many, many responsibilities, so he takes a deep breath and tries not to think about Kelton Amell, and climbs the stairs towards the viscount’s personal offices.

A servant who looks pale and frightened and flinches far too easily for Alistair’s comfort dips him a low, low bow and swings the door open on perfectly oiled hinges. Everywhere, the Amell family crest bleeds in red lines beside the emblem of the city of chains. Everything is spotless and silent, and even the air tastes clean, somehow - perfumed with what tastes to Alistair like elfroot and spindleweed. He’s led, with his retainers, into a large room with a long, beautiful dark wooden table. Behind it the Viscount of Kirkwall: muscular, broad, handsome Garrett Hawke, sits in state wearing an iron crown. Behind him, standing demurely with his hands folded and his head lowered, is the apostate who blew up the Chantry.

The first thing Alistair can find to think is that he recognises this man. He remembers gently encouraging Kelton to recruit him, almost a decade ago in Amaranthine. A young, frightened man whose brave face warred with his real horror at what the Templar order wished to do with him.

The second thing Alistair notices is the collar. It’s not ostentatious - of course not, if there’s one thing Alistair has learned from the immaculate Keep and the deathly silent streets, it’s that the man sitting in front of him does not go in for the obvious. But it’s a collar all the same: a thin, beautiful bar of rolled gold which hangs like a necklace around the apostate’s neck, darkened with dozens and dozens of finely engraved runes that makes it look stained black like an antique. Thin gold chains dip below the apostate’s neckline, under the loose, beautiful deep green silk tunic he’s wearing. There are matching, thick gold cuffs wrapped around each of his wrists. Alistair can’t see his feet from where he’s standing, but he doesn’t doubt there are cuffs there too. He swallows his bile, and refocuses his attention.

Hawke doesn’t bother to stand, which is technically a formal insult, but Alistair suspects it won’t be the last thing he tolerates today in the name of preventing open war. Instead he inclines his head, and waves at the frightened servant to pull out a chair. The servant does so, and Alistair thanks them softly, not missing the way Hawke’s mouth turns down in a sneer. The apostate behind the viscount, (the grey warden), says nothing. Alistair can barely believe he’s breathing, for how silent he’s being.

Hawke leans forward. “King Theirin. Such a pleasure to have your company so soon after our...troubles.” Behind Hawke, the apostate flinches, so subtly Alistair can hardly believe he noticed it. But Hawke’s jaw clenches, and the apostate’s already pale skin pales further.

Alistair thinks about facing down a broodmother and sits a little straighter in his chair. “Of course, Viscount. I was sorry to hear the news of your predecessor, and,” Alistair pauses, picking his words as carefully as stepping between landmines, “...confused by Knight-Commander Meredith’s interim occupation.”

Hawke laughs, and again, the apostate flinches. “Yes, well, Stannard always did have delusions of grandeur. But she wasn’t wrong about the mage problem. Worse than a nest of plague-ridden rats in this city and just as rotten. It was poisoning us from the inside out.”

Alistair lets the comment past him, and keeps his features neutral. He’d gotten good at this, as a child, under Isolde’s harassment. He asks, neutrally, as politely as he can, “Is it true, then? That you took part in the annulment personally?”

Again, Hawke laughs. Alistair feels a thorny kind of heat coiling in his chest. Hawke says, “Damned right I did. I was the only one left in the Blighted city with the fucking guts. Got every apostate too - all the criminals and infected children. I lanced the boil that this city had become and I burned out every bit of rot. Except this one,” Hawke gestures to the apostate behind him, then looks back at Alistair with a wide smile of perfect teeth, “But he’s pretty.”

Alistair fantasises about breaking his nose. Instead, he follows Hawke’s gesture to look up at the tall, broad man beside him. He’s older than he was, when Alistair had met him, lines printed across his face in deep crevasses. But he’s clean shaven, and his hair is brushed and soft around his head. Alistair listens to his own racing heartbeat for a moment before he speaks. “I heard he was a Grey Warden.”

Hawke’s eyes narrow, and there’s a flash of something there in the brown and gold of his irises that reminds Alistair terribly of the bird after which his family took its name. Something bloodthirsty, and cruel. “Like you? I told Vael, and the blighted Divine, Anders stays here. He’s mine.”

Alistair raises his hands in surrender and wonders whether Hawke can see that his palms are sweating. “Of course! Wouldn’t dream of separating you. It was only innocent curiosity. Now, I believe you have a Fereldan apostate to deliver to me?”

The blatant threat on Hawke’s face melts into a smirk, and he leans back in his chair. Behind him, Anders, the apostate’s shoulders lower, fractionally. Hawke clicks his fingers at the servant, and a few minutes later there’s the clatter of armour as a pair of templars bring in a wounded, starved looking elvhen girl.

Alistair thinks hard about exactly how much worse war would be for all his people and truly, deeply hates being king. Hawke gets up, circling the table to lift the girl’s chin between his thumb and forefinger. She glares at him, and Alistair hates that he’s heartened by this remaining spirit.

But then Hawke looks at the apostate in the corner and lifts his hand. The gold ring on his wedding finger, similarly blackened with runes, burns red, and Anders flinches as the jewellery on his wrists and neck glow, too. All Hawke says is, “Anders.”

The apostate moves faster than Alistair thinks he could have followed even if he were prepared for it. His hand flicks, and a silent bolt of lightning crosses the space of Hawke’s private quarters and connects with the girl’s skull. Her body slumps almost immediately, shuddering in a death rattle that is all too familiar to Alistair. He makes an effort to close his open mouth, and for the first time gives up the poker face.

“What is the meaning of this?”

Hawke smiles at him, close lipped and shrewd. “A lesson, your majesty. We won’t tolerate apostates in Kirkwall. Try to keep them on your side of the ocean.”

Alistair looks up at the apostate, Anders, but his hands are already folded in front of him again, his head bowed. Alistair swallows past the dryness of his mouth and the thick lump in his throat, and gets to his feet with an agonisingly loud screech of the wooden chair legs on stone.”Well, Viscount. It’s certainly been...educational.”

Alistair turns and tries not to imagine the entire darkspawn horde at his heels. Hawke doesn’t stand, and his pet apostate doesn’t move. But when Alistair gets to the door, Hawke speaks again. “Come back any time, your majesty. Anders can do wonderful things with his hands.”

Alistair doesn’t turn around. The doors swing shut behind them, and both the Keep’s guards and two servants usher them forward. But Alistair hesitates, listening for a moment.

Through the wooden doors, there’s a crack of skin on skin, and a soft cry of pain. Softly, deadly, Alistair hears the Viscount whisper, “Killed her quickly, didn’t you? Any suffering you spared her I’ll deal you, later.”

Alistair doesn’t realised he’s curled his fingers into a fist until one of his guard’s touches his forearm, her eyes wide with either fear or concern. Slowly, Alistair uncurls his hand, listening to the crunch of metal, and follows the soldiers and servants out of the Keep. He makes a mental note to write Zevran, later.

There’s a warden in need, and a state leader in desperate want of assassination.

[honourablejester]

Some homebrew D&D deities of various domains and alignments, while I’m in a random worldbuilding mood. A bit of a realisation of some of the ideas from my Ideas for Deities post, and one continuation from my Faction: Iron Carillon post:

OREM, THIEF GOD OF THE BOUNDARY

Alignment: True Neutral

Domains: Grave, Trickery, Twilight

Symbol: A Hooded Lantern

A gentle shadow padding silently through the twilight, his hooded lantern held aloft, Orem is the thief god of the grave, the boundary and the night. Believed to have once been a mortal man, he is the guardian of lost souls, all those who die alone or in dark places, the dim light of his lantern guiding them to their rest. He is the messenger between the lands of the living and the dead, and may be implored to carry messages past the bounds. He is the god of thieves, watching over all who find their comfort and their livelihood in the shadows. He is the gentle warden of the outcast and abandoned, granting shelter and comfort to any who pray in desperation. Orem is the god of the in-between, the guardian of all that is lost or fallen through the cracks of the world, and all who seek them.

ELAIA SIVETH, THE LADY OF FIRST AND LAST RESPITE

Alignment: Neutral Good

Domains: Life, Grave

Symbol: Two Conjoined Faces, One Grey, One Silver

The dual goddess of life and death, Elaia Siveth presents one of her two faces to everyone who suffers or teeters in the brink of death. Those who long for healing pray for her silver face, Elaia the Lifegiver, for life and strength and recovery. Those in agony or despair, desperate for escape, may plead for her grey aspect instead, Siveth the Gentle, for the cool safety and sanctity of the grave. Elaia Siveth is the Dual Goddess of Mercy, the Lady of First and Last Respite. She has no care for names or histories or creeds, only for the easing of suffering. Across nations and races, she is worshiped by healers, midwives, funerary officials, exorcists, slaves, and all who in their distress have need of either of her aspects.

WEYLOUN, THE BELL-FOUNDER, THE FORGE GOD

Alignment: Chaotic Good

Domains: Forge, Trickery, Knowledge, Tempest

Symbol: An Iron Bell

The Forge God, Weyloun walked the world in mortal form during the early days of civilisation, teaching the arts of metalwork and the forge. In this form, he was captured by demons and taken to the Abyss to be a slave there, bound in mortal form, and forced to forge weapons for demons in their private wars. He invented a new craft to free himself, the art of bell-founding, and forged a mighty artefact there: the Bell of Sundering, which can break any bond or seal. Freed of his shackles and restored to godly form, he tore free the Abyss, and ever since has set himself against demons, against slavery, and against the proliferation of deadly weapons such as those he was once forced to forge. He is the god of smiths, of spies, of bell-founders, and all who fight against slavery or evil.

OROMASDES, LORD OF WISDOM

Alignment: Lawful Good

Domains: Arcana, Knowledge, Light

Symbol: Holy Fire

The Holy Fire, the Light of Truth, the All-Seeing. One of the first and oldest gods, Oromasdes is the god of the sun, of light, of magic, of truth, and of judgement. His is the all-seeing eye, the font of knowledge, the burning fire of inspiration. He favours the magics of divination and truth-seeking, and the cleansing fires of judgement and renewal. Those who seek knowledge, truth, or the wisdom to make good judgements pray to him. He is the god of diviners, watchmen, researchers and intelligence agents, and also the god of judges, sages and scholars. Oromasdes is not opposed to lies or trickery in the pursuit of noble goals, but self-delusion and the destruction or denial of knowledge are the greatest of faults in his eyes.

DEIMA, THE TWILIGHT LADY, THE LAST INNKEEPER

Alignment: True Neutral

Domains: Nature, Life, Trickery, Twilight

Symbol: A Wooden Door Carved With A Crescent Moon

A mysterious goddess, Deima is believed to have once been a gentle fey beloved of the gods of the woods and the wilds. As mortal civilisation encroached more and more onto the wilderness, other gods and fey took to arms against it. Deima chose another path. She is the goddess and proprietress of the Inn of the Moon, a mythical little inn found only at liminal places: crossroads, fords, the boundaries of protected woods. Any may enter, and all will be treated to a bounty of good food and good cheer, but it is said that only those who have the best interests of the natural world at heart may ever leave. As gentle as she is, Deima is the goddess and guardian of the boundary between tamed land and wilderness. Should you seek … unorthodox means to solve violent problems, Deima is your goddess of choice.

NALASHTAR, THE POISONED PROPHETESS

Alignment: Chaotic Evil (well Neutral-Leaning-Evil, really)

Domains: Death, Trickery, Tempest, Light, Life

Symbol: Two Hands Cupping A Green Flame

“Only in chaos is there truth. Only in extremis do we see who we really are.” Nalashtar is the goddess of chaos, disease, disaster and hope. Once a mortal woman, from a homeland decimated by plague, Nalashtar survived the ravages of her fever where thousands of others perished. In the burning embrace of her disease, she found an inner truth that she desperately wished to spread to any who would listen. The same inner light that enabled her to endure past all endurance once, later enabled her to ascend to godhood, the better to the spread her truth. Chaos is the seed of strength. Death is the seed of life. Break the laws. Topple the towers. Poison the cups. And in the chaos afterwards, see what lights still have strength to survive.

[unethical-gender]

For context, I wanted it to be that the start of every chapter would be George and Dream talking in prison and eventually it would be just one big chapter of every chapter starter plus more and then george leaves the prison but I never got that far so. Enjoy👍

------------

"Why are you really here?"

George barely registered the question. He was still drowsy, the events of the day failing to sufficiently wake him. He didn't even look up to acknowledge Dream; he knew exactly where he was, sat a few feet away, slumped against the wall, dressed in torn, faded, and burned orange fabric that marked him prison property. It was a comfort to George, but also made him sick to look at.

"I told you why I'm here," George finally replied, voice as tired as he was and barely heard over the roar and crackling of the molten lava feet away, burning his skin. It was a familiar feeling at this point, nearly comforting, reminding him of the times that prisons didn't exist here, times when the only worry was temporary pain.

"I don't believe that you just suddenly want to see me," Dream said, the audible frown in his voice hurting George more than he expected. "You don't love me anymore. Why are you here?" 

"I still-" George started, voice caught in his throat. He forced himself to look up, to meet Dream's gaze, unfamiliarly unobstructed. His grey-green eyes shone wet in the orange light. George sighed.

"I still love you, Dream. I can't just stop loving you. That doesn't mean I like the person you've become."

Dream scoffed, breaking eye contact and instead gazing at his few belongings next to him. "The person I've become?" He almost laughed. "George, I've always been like this. You just chose not to see it."

George tightened his grip on nothing, un-cut nails digging into his palms until his joints ached from the pressure. He let his hands go slack by his sides.

"You're lying," George said meekly, trying to lace his words with a confidence he couldn't muster. Dream cocked his head, smirking with venom that George used to feel protected by. Venom that usually wasn't for him; now it was. Dream scooted closer, George forced in place by the deadly heat behind him. Now Dream was only a foot away, so close that George could smell him. He didn't smell very nice, dirt and sweat replacing his usual scent of wood and smoke.

"I'm lying?" Dream asked. "Since when do I lie to you?" George swallowed, words forming and passing through his lips before he could think.

"He said you weren't supposed to be like this," George's voice leaked the kind of anger only found in a deep love, the kind of anger that burns white hot because your heart has been broken. Dream's smirk faltered, but only for a moment. Almost instantly he was staring into George's soul and searching for an answer.

"Who's he, George?"

✳✳✳

George stretched, a newfound liveliness in his limbs. He could wander for hours without tiring, he felt. He brushed a hand through his hair, dried stems and grass falling out, he had been lying on the ground. He temporarily removed his glasses to quickly rub his eyes of all remaining sleep, keeping them shut tight until he replaced them. Bright, eternally summer days made his head ache without the dark filter of his sunglasses.

He quickly rose, searching for something to do. Conflict quickly rose around him every day, and he only wished to live like he did before there were worries and wars and death. He just wanted to run through fields and forests, to inhale moist, woodsy air and sleep in shady mushroom patches. So, he decided that's what he would do.

He walked until he fell under the shade of a forest (a natural one, not one that had been planted by someone), embracing the sweet and heavy air. He hadn't taken time to enjoy himself like this in a while. He walked until the trees were so thick he was nearly blind. He removed his sunglasses, face light from the lack of plastic. He still squinted, light occasionally squeezing through gaps in the thick oak branches.

He sat, leaned against a tree, and brushed his hands over the ground. He looked at the thick carpet of moss, the rotting, broken logs nearby, the red and white spotted mushrooms that grew around him. He felt at peace, like nothing and no one could find him or hurt him here. It was a pleasant distraction from his normally prison-themed thoughts. He decided he needed to do this more often.

He wasn't tired at all, he even felt energized, but the thick air was like a blanket urging him to melt into the tree and the moss and close his eyes once more. Who was he to deny the forests whims, to resist letting his eyes rest for a moment and let his other senses take over?

The forest air, of course, had a different plan, filling his lungs like a drug and quickly luring him into an undesired sleep amongst the thick flora. The forest almost seemed to want to claim him as it's own. It wouldn't be the first to try.

His awakening was rude, sudden golden light flooding in and burning his retinas through his shut eyelids. He quickly covered his eyes, head already threatening to burst. He groaned. Why was there suddenly a light source in the once blackened forest?

"Hello there."

A voice suddenly made George jump. The voice was familiar in a way that made his stomach turn and his heart drop. It was a voice he knew was impossible to be hearing.

"Dream?" He asked, hoping to be wrong. There wasn't a reply for a moment, swaying trees and distant water filling the silence.

"Is something wrong with your eyes?" The voice asked. George swore it echoed, but that must have been a trick of his aching brain, surely.

"Yes, you know that there is just- where are my glasses?" George groaned, reaching one hand around to feel blindly at the surrounding ground. Dream's possible escape from prison was second to him in his list of priorities, regaining vision being a clear winner for first place.

Suddenly, cool plastic tapped the hand covering George's eyes, making him jump. He quickly grabbed them and put them on, opening his eyes slowly to adjust and looking forward, expecting to see a disheveled Dream standing before him. The sight there, however, made him jump and try to slide backwards, a small yelp escaping him.

That wasn't Dream.

Instead of Dream as George had predicted stood, no, floated, what looked like an older version of Dream, if George had to guess. He domineered in size, twice the size of a human proportionally, large gold rings floating and crossed in an x surrounding his torso, spinning slowly. His face was obstructed by a nearly familiar mask, a large "XD" replacing the usual smile. George knew who this was, of course. Anyone did. He just never thought he would ever be face to face with DreamXD, with God, in any of his lifetimes.

He wore little clothing, a skirt-like wrap around his waist, emerald green and falling to his knees. He wore a hooded cape, a matching green, buckled at his bare chest with an eye of ender, or at least a replica of one. He stared menacingly down at George, curiosity visible on the lower, uncovered half of his face.

"DreamXD?" George asked, half hoping his eyes were deceiving him, that this was some headache fueled delusion. XD cocked his head, an action George found familiar to Dream.

"Yes. That's me." He replied, voice echoing by itself and eerily similar to Dream's. George was still stunned, hands gripping at the forest floor.

"What is wrong with your eyes?" XD asked, drifting forward and leaning down a bit. George couldn't back up, forced against the tree, so he sat still and stiff, contemplating how to answer.

"I, uh, don't know exactly," George started. "Its just they're super sensitive to light. I need the sunglasses to see." He gestured to the obvious glasses on his face. XD looked curious at every word George said.

"So if its dark you can take them off?" He asked. George nodded slowly, somewhat worried about what XD would do. XD was moving his hands, George watching as he waved through air with a determination George couldn't understand. When his hands stopped he held them out, an item materializing in his hands.

He held out to George a large sun hat, brim wide enough to go past his shoulders and colored bright red, uneven white splotches decorating it. It was a mushroom hat, resembling the ones George was sat amongst. George took it cautiously, leaning forward to make room and gently placing it on his head. It fit perfectly.

"You can take off the glasses," XD said. George's hands moved a bit, but hesitated. Sure, the hat blocked a lot of light, but if it wasn't enough it would be painful. Then again, how was he supposed to refuse the requests of God?

Slowly he removed the glasses, squinting his eyes in expectation, waiting for the spikes of pain to shatter his skull. It never came. He blinked, able to see the forest clearly now, untinted and beautiful. XD moved in closer; he would have been looking George straight in the eyes of his weren't covered by a mask. George had a feeling he could see him anyways.

"Your eyes are different," XD remarked. George darted his eyes around, trying not to look directly at XD.

"Yeah, they're different colors. Always have been." George muttered. XD looked like he might reach his hands out to touch his eyes, but instead kept his hands to himself, still levitating.

"You have pretty eyes, George," XD said in a way that made Georges stomach flip. He now sounded almost exactly like Dream. The echo in XD's voice had faded, yet was still audible, a small reminder that he still wasn't human. He had sounded like Dream before, sure, but the reverb had muddled it to a point of no effect. With the voice changed, though, George couldn't ignore the familiarity.

George didn't respond, just sat in a stunned silence, searching for coherent words. XD didn't seem to mind, seemingly content with staring into George's eyes, transfixed in amber and blue.

"Are you okay, George?" XD asked after a minute of George's nervous gaze. George blinked back.

"Yeah, Dream, I'm fine," he replied before he could think about it. XD didn't falter. It was his name, somewhat, even if it was apparent that George didn't mean it to address him.

"Why are you here," George asked, hoping to move the subject off of himself.

"Because you're here, George," XD said. He kept the echo out of his voice the best he could, watching the way something in George's eyes shifted. "You invited me here."

"Invited you?" George searched his memory for anything he did that could have summoned God. Nothing came to mind. "How did I invite you?"

"You're very welcoming, George. You seemed like you wanted to see me."

George bit his tongue. How did he seem like he wanted to see DreamXD? Wait, he thought, I was thinking about Dream and the prison, wasn't I? Is that enough to draw God's attention to you?

He forced himself out of his thoughts and slowly tried to rise without moving forward. XD followed him up as he rose, maintaining "eye contact" (since George couldn't see the others eyes, he wasn't sure it could qualify).

"I think I need to go now," George said, searching for an out. XD stayed still.

"Why? You have nowhere to be. You're asleep." XD stated like it was a known fact between the two. It was not.

"Im not sleeping," George corrected. "I woke up. You woke me up." XD shrugged as if to say "If you think so, sure."

"If you think you're awake, prove it to me," XD said. The echo in his voice had returned. George almost mourned the loss.

"How am I supposed to prove im awake, I mean, I just am," doubt began seeping into George's statements. He was awake, he was sure of it.

"Do you think I'm lying to you?" XD asked. "Why would I lie to you, George. What would I gain from that?" George opened his mouth and shut it just as quickly.

"I guess that's fair," he muttered. "But how can I prove im awake? Like, pinch myself?" He tried without request, hissing at the sting.

"Do you doubt the power of your dreams, George?" XD asked. George faltered for a moment. You aren't supposed to feel pain in dreams, right? Then again, you aren't exactly supposed to have casual interactions with God either, but here he was.

"So what, I'm lucid dreaming?" George asked, still disbelieving that a dream could feel this real. XD shook his head.

"You're still underestimating your mind, George," he said, echo slowly fading until it was nearly gone. "You're powerful."

George tilted his head down, the brim of his hat sufficiently blocking his face from view. Why must he sound so much like Dream when complicating me? He thought. Does he know the effect he has?

"So," George started carefully. "If im sleeping right now, does that mean im just imagining you?" XD shook his head again.

"I'm just as real as you are," he said, startling George as he reached a large hand to brush fingertips against Georges cheek, making his face flush pink. "Probably even more real."

"More real?" George asked, not moving away from XD's touch. "What does that mean? How can you be more real than me?"

"You ask a lot of questions," XD remarked, bringing his hand back and away from George. "You're smart. You can figure things out." George frowned.

"Why can't you just tell me things?" He asked. XD shook his head.

"You're asking questions again," he scolded. George was about to retaliate when XD held a hand up.

"I think it's time you woke up, George," he said. George felt a part of him panic. This was the closest thing he had gotten to a conversation with Dream in ages. Well, a conversation that wasn't a tearful and angry goodbye.

"Wake up?" George asked, now incredibly self conscious about the questions he asked. "Will you still be here?"

XD smiled, lowering himself to the ground finally. He towered over George, over twice his height and powerful enough to probably crush George's head between his hands without trying. He was closer, though, close enough that George could see slight strands of dirty blonde hair poke out from under XD's hood when he looked far up enough.

"I'm always here," XD said. "If you want to see me again, you just need to want to see me. I'll know." George shook his head slightly.

"That doesn't make sense," he criticized. "So can I see you when im awake, too?" XD's smile didn't change, but the energy of it shifted noticeably.

"You'll just have to see, won't you George?" George wanted to protest again, but his eyelids suddenly were overtaken with weight and his mind was slowing.

"Wake up, George. You can't sleep forever."

George was awake, the forest dark as it was when he fell asleep, glasses sat beside him and-

Holy shit.

The mushroom hat XD had made him in his dream was sat upon his legs in front of him. It was real.

"Probably even more real," the God's words ringing in George's head. He was more confused than ever now, unsure if he had actually been asleep or not. Other than the hat there was no sign of XD, the hole in the forest roof nonexistent now.

He already felt himself longing to hear that voice again. XD had told George that if he wanted to see him, he'd be there. XD wasn't there. Of course, this only lead to one thought for George:

He can only visit me in my dreams.

George now hated his energy, his lack of tiredness, and wished for sleep once again. He wished to hear the voice that tied his stomach in knots because it was once a voice that whispered sweet nothings into his ear at night. He wished to see the closest thing he had to the arms that held him tight and lips that declared George to be claimed by Dream in one way or another. This was the closest thing to loving Dream again, being loved by Dream again, that he probably would ever get. 

DreamXD had told him that he couldn't sleep forever, but in that moment he had fully prepared to fall into a coma with no regrets.

[fitzefitcher]

honestly i've been seeing bastion as like a Buddhist-ish place with ancient greek aesthetics, bc letting go of your earthly attachments to be enlightened is pretty Buddhist. 'If you meet the Buddha on the road, kill the Buddha. If you meet your father, kill your father.', that kind of thing. i haven't thought of it as a Light place at all, though i can see why others do.

so there's. a lot of things I would like to cover in answering this, and I'm honestly dreading it a little lmao buuuuut I will do the best I can. I have a lot of thoughts about Bastion, and about the Light, so I'm going to take this as an opportunity to explore that. so: content warning for discussion of religion and religious trauma, esp in regards to identity erasure.

full disclosure: I'm an american queer that was raised roman catholic (specifically, roman catholic within the confines of a heavily irish-italian community) and currently identify more as like. an agnostic apostate, would be the closest thing to describe it, I think. generally, while I'm not really crazy about organized religion as a massive institution capable of doing absolutely wretched things to the people it alleges to helping (and by no means am suffering under the delusion that it hasn't and won't continue to do these things so long as oppressive systems of power are in place, just like it would be in any other area, not just religion), I also acknowledge that there's a lot of good in it, too, and it's the cornerstone of many people's community, culture, and identity. ultimately, my opinion is that religion is a tool, and whoever's holding that tool decides its purpose and intention. it's. a complicated matter lmao.

I'm not going to pretend I'm an expert on buddhism, here. obviously this was not the religion (or any of the many cultures its beliefs are centered in) I was raised as, and honestly even the research I've done for this feels like it's barely scratching the surface. so, rather than try and argue or explain something that is really out of the realm of what I'm familiar with or have experience with (esp. something that's not really mine to claim), I will try and explain things from my own experience as a queer AFAB person raised as roman catholic. and speaking from that perspective, it is very incredibly obvious to me how much of bastion was lifted from christian theology. not just the aesthetics of it, all of the weird identity conformity shit, too. the way that kyrian ideology is being used here, is as a tool to enforce this conformity.

same with how the Light as a concept has been developed in recent years- there are no longer any significant differences between the way individual factions use and interact with the light, even though as cultures their views on it should be radically different, or at least different enough that they don't feel like homogenized versions of each other. like, there's no real difference between how the humans view the Light, and how dwarves view the light, and how gnomes view the Light, and it doesn't really feel like there ever was. Nelves' view on it used to be characterized pretty strongly and differently, as did trolls and draenei, but the longer the years go on, the more that they sort of blend together. to get back to your statement, "I haven't thought of it as a Light place at all," I find that very difficult to parse as a statement, as Bastion as a whole has been developed from base concepts of the Light. Like, Kyrians were designed from spirit healers, spirit healers are now confirmed to be Kyrians (for some reason), and all of the aesthetics of their magic, their clothing, their environment are all heavily priest, paladin, and light-inspired. everything is golds and marbles and sky blues, when they become "corrupted," they suddenly become shadow-themed, like all greys and blacks and purples, their wings turn black, etc. but the similarities, and all their short-comings, go much farther than that.

so the general story thread of each area of the shadowlands in this expansion is that things aren't as they seem, right? that their individual systems are beginning to fall to internal corruption and are crumbling under their own weight. and we see this in each of the trailers- the houses of maldraxxus are starting to eat each other, ardenweald is slowly starving to death, revendreth's citizens are being choked with heavy demands from the aristocracy, and bastion is struggling to adjust in the face of new, unprecedented problems, unwilling to change their ways, even when it's explicitly obvious how badly they need to change. like, I've talked about this a little bit before- the trailer and the way it's structured led me to believe that we, the players, are meant to be hanging out with Devos and Uther, trying to help them convince Devos' boss that very obvious bad thing that's happening, is happening. And this is about how it goes for the other trailers- we learn about the betrayal of Draka's house in maldraxxus, and the maldraxxus storyline is centered on helping her figure out what happened and pick up the pieces. We learn about Ardenweald's rapidly shrinking resources and dying environment, and the ardenweald storyline is centered on figuring out what the cause of this famine is. We learn about Revendreth's aristocracy and how they're demanding more and more of the common people, and the revendreth storyline is centered on overthrowing the increasingly tyrannical cruelty of their current leaders and helping the common people, with the help of a leader favored by the common people. And I feel like, given the state of things, and how the IRL world as a whole has been going the past couple years, helping Devos and Uther get to the bottom of this, maybe even helping Bastion adjust and change in the face of these new challenges, would have been a very good, insightful storyline, and very appropriate for the times we're in.

This, clearly, is not what happened lmao. Whether or not they'll decide to develop bastion further, at least in terms of addressing its failings with its own people, is up for debate, but based on WoW's previous history of similar stories, I'm not very confident lmao.

so I will touch on that statement of bastion being a "buddhist-like place" for a moment, I did look into buddhism a bit, and while I very quickly realized that there wasn't really a way that I could discuss this at length in a way that's fair (esp. with how many variations and cultures there are centered around it, again, I am not an expert, I am doing the best I can with the information I have), the very very bare bones basics of buddhism that I can find more or less boil down to, yes, letting go of earthly attachments to attain enlightenment. but this is not really a nuanced assessment of buddhism, and tbh, isn't really the goal of the kyrians' purification rituals. sure, at first glance, it seems to line up- shedding the burdens of their mortal lives in order to achieve ascension- but ascension here, is not enlightenment. buddhist enlightenment, from what I can find, seems to be the act of breaking free from the cycle of death and rebirth and from mortal suffering. kyrian ascension is the act of, not breaking free of that cycle, but tying yourself to it for an eternity of service. and living your life (even  an eternal one- especially an eternal one) in the service of others is a really strongly christian concept. and the kyrian's concept of virtues only strengthens this. the fact that kyrians have virtues at all is heavily christian-coded, and on top of that, the virtues they have feel like they've been lifted directly from christian beliefs. also like. they're literal fucking angels, trying to earn their wings. like. there's not much else I can think of that's that heavy-handed lmao.

let's talk more about those virtues, though.

the kyrian virtues are as follows: purity, humility, courage, wisdom, and loyalty. There are a number of variations on christian virtues, but here are two of the main sets: one set lines up as the ideological opposite to the seven capital sins (or seven deadly sins if you're an FMA fan lmao), and the other is more-or-less what is accepted in contemporary belief. This is what I was taught in sunday school/CCD, so this is what I'm a little more familiar with.

so set 1, the heavenly virtues, are: chastity, temperance, charity, diligence, patience, kindness, and humility, and set 2, the contemporary virtues, are split further into 2 groups: the cardinal virtues, prudence, justice, fortitude, and temperance, and the theological virtues, charity, hope, and faith.

So humility, courage, and wisdom, are pretty straight-forward in terms of what they represent, and line up pretty neatly with humility (lol) from the heavenly virtues, and fortitude and prudence from the contemporary virtues. To touch on those briefly, humility is exactly what it says on the tin, and acts as an ideological opposite to the capital sin of pride, fortitude is bravery and endurance as well as patience, and prudence is reason and self-discipline, esp in terms of handling yourself and how you interact with others. And these are perfectly fine as principles. the ones that set off alarm bells for me, though, are loyalty and purity.

as kyrian virtues, they don't really line up to any christian virtues from either set. but tbh, this is beside the point- the fact that purity and loyalty are considered virtues, at all, especially in combination with each other, at best feel very suspicious, and at worst openly hostile. and the way this is covered in game only enforces this. purity is only obtained by sloughing off pieces of yourself that the kyrians consider obstructive to your ascension and how you can serve the Purpose, and questioning this or any other aspect of their ascension ritual gets you sent to the temple of loyalty to, ostensibly, stay there until you Get Your Priorities Straightened Out lmao. Like, there's no exploration of why these purity rituals are being questioned to begin with, there's no examination of why the rituals are necessary to begin with, and seemingly, prospective kyrians are punished for even asking. like, for a faction that seemingly prides itself on helping their members becoming their best selves, it feels strange that the reaction to their unsure members is punitive instead of therapeutic.

at this point, the link between the kyrians' beliefs and christianity should be readily apparent. it's no secret that over the centuries, christianity has used as a tool for oppressive systems to dominate marginalized groups, both within its ingroup and without. "purity" in christianity is less a virtue and more a heavily enforced, wildly contradictory idea, hiding itself in mealy-mouthed platitudes about being a Good Person or Becoming Your Best Self while simultaneously, stringently punishing its own members for daring to step a toe out of an extremely arbitrary line. like, I remember going to church growing up, and in the same breath that the head priest said to pray for various members of the community (thoughts and prayers, lmao), pray for [insert local sports team here] to win for their upcoming game, he also said that yes, democrats are corrupting the country. yes, homosexuals are going to hell. mass was an exercise in enduring misery most of the time, and a big reason I stayed closeted from my family for the majority of my life is because of this, and I still am, in many ways. I still have to divvy myself up in bits and pieces to become Socially Acceptable enough to appease my extended family, and there are certain family members that I will go to my grave never having come out to them, because I know they will never accept me for who I am, truly. so to have purity be a kyrian virtue with no further examination, no trace of irony, and to have loyalty as a virtue to back it up, feels, at best, extremely tone-deaf.

when you quest alongside kleia and pelagos, you see these purity rituals, and you see how large a toll they take on them. you see pelagos struggle, and you as the player help him overcome the difficulties he faces- difficulties he could not overcome himself. you see kleia, over time, becoming more and more disgruntled with bastion's governing body as a whole, and finding more and more cracks in the kyrians' concept of purity. but no lessons are learned, from either of these. nothing is examined further, and I have doubts that it ever will.

you, the player, see other kyrians, who previously were orcs, tauren, trolls, draenei, all these non-humans, being stripped of their identity, ostensibly for the reason that it will make them more just and fair a judge, a concept that rapidly falls apart the longer you look at it. the idea of all these sentient creatures from all these walks of life, particularly the ones heavily coded as BIPOC, are to be stripped of their cultural identity and made into Homogenous Standard (white-coded) Blue Human is so intrinsically malicious that it is genuinely baffling that it was even seriously considered as an idea, let alone greenlit and put into the game. prospective mortals are scouted to be kyrians theoretically for the lives they lived in service of others, in justice and kindness and wisdom, and then they are made to give up more and more pieces of those lives, rendering whatever they've learned, whatever experiences they've gained, that made them this person that the kyrians sought out in the first place, an utterly pointless and redundant endeavor. things like kindness, wisdom, courage, are not inherent qualities. They are things that have to be learned. They are things in which the context of them is paramount to how they will be measured. So to say that it is Necessary to do this, to make them Fairer, to make them More Just, feels both stunningly nonsensical and just pointlessly, nihilistically mean.

so what does this have to do with the Light?

well, in recent years, it seems to be steering more and more towards the idea that only correct religion within WoW is the Light, and there's only One Way to be Light. Early on in WoW's development, it was established that yeah, shadow has a bit of a reputation and can certainly be misused, but nobody's arguing that the Light can be misused, too, and that neither shadow nor light are inherently good nor inherently evil- they just Are, and each serve their own purpose in this world and its way of things. I had written a post about this like. several years ago, and a lot of it hasn't aged very well (I will not link to it bc woof, it was Pretty Rough to look at again after seven years lmao), but the gist of it was that Light and Shadow, are less like good and evil, and more like the Force from star wars. Well, a more nuanced force- again, Light is not Strictly Good, Shadow is not Strictly Evil. They are merely opposite sides of the same spectrum, but they are not inherently antithetical to each other. It was less a religion/belief system with an established deity, and more just reverence for the universe and its workings as a whole. Yes, it has the markers and drapings of christianity, particularly in its aesthetics, but the actual belief system didn't really lift anything from any particular christian belief system, and didn't really match up to any one of them, besides, again, the aesthetic of it. The Light now, however- now it does have a lot in common with christian beliefs. or at least, it and the church of the light have a lot in common with the mentality of those with strong christian beliefs. Which is to say, again, there is only one Correct Religion, and it's Light, and there's only One Correct Way to be Light. other religions within wow are either condemned, painted as savage, violent, heretical, or watered down so much that they either don't matter or function as mere Extensions to the light.

last summer, when I was reading the "before the storm" novel as research for my sylvanas essay, one of the many, many things that made it a difficult read was how like. unintentionally, thoughtlessly intolerant Golden had written it. Anduin, one of the main characters in it, despite having a history of kindness, compassion, curiosity, and understanding, is kind of shunted into being a 1-dimensional Good Christian Boy(tm). Like, he struggles with interacting with the forsaken, despite them having been in existence for over a decade at this point, and more than half his lifetime, and despite having dealt with them before, and orcs, and tauren, and a great number of other non-human creatures, while still treating them with grace and dignity, and respecting their perspectives, experiences, and beliefs. like, he's painted as thinking that the netherlight temple would be an alliance-only, church of the holy light only affair, and is really surprised, even stunned, at the thought of having to interact with non-alliance, non-light priests. and something that really really stuck with me while reading this, was that Anduin, this compassionate, intelligent, understanding person, could only learn to interact with priests of other factions and species, despite having already done this before, many, many times in his life, on the basis that They, Too, Are Servants Of The Light. and there's just. no examination in this. no irony. Light is Right, Others are Not. No lessons were learned.

[ji-yaaan]

𝐅𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐝𝐨𝐦 𝐭𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐬 𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐲...

Yandere!Malleus x Reader Oneshot

Warnings: Mentions of death, blood, self harm, toxic relationships.

Note: Yandere time kids! \(óvò)/ time to debut as a yandere writer... Lolololol jk! But seriously, I think I enjoyed writing this too much- hmmmmm I don't know what to say anymore..... Anyways have fun reading ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

Rain dripping down the skies. Heavens weeped their sorrows. Raindrops pitter-pattered on the glass windows, loneliness fills the room accompanied by a cold wind that gushed from the open windows. Ice cold raindrops hit your frozen face. How you wished to wail out your misery and despair... 

Life is unfair...When was it fair? When you had the 5 seconds in which your escape from this endless nightmare was in the grasp of your hands? Freedom was in arm's reach, yet the so called freedom was a lie painted in sweet colorful rotten words.

"God... Is this a joke? Is this a test? Is this a Nightmare? Why have you forsaken me?" You questioned the heavens pouring down heavily. As if to mock you, a loud boom of thunder echoed up above, lightning lit up the dark grey skies for a brief moment...

Empty eyes filled with sorrows gazed up the heavens, unironically, the abyss stared back at their lifeless soul. You scoffed as the heavens ridicule you, a scornful laughter escaped your lips. Only to be interrupted by a loud creak of the wooden doors that rang across the room. "Hmmmmm? Y/N darling, what are you doing by the windows? See.... Look at you.... You're drenched and you might get sick..." A deep sigh escaped the fae's lips as his eyebrows furrowed from worry. "You really have a knack for getting people worried, my love..."

How disgusting "If you're really worried, you should've let me go by now..."

Is what you'd like to say, but why make it worse for yourself? Instead of a truthful answer, you simply stared at the man you loathed most... Malleus Draconia... The great man of The Valley of thorns... The infamous man who's part of the top 5 greatest mages... The powerful prince, who's heir to the throne... Just why must he stoop this low to abduct someone with the stupid excuse of true love?

A pair of peridot orbs that seemed to glow in the dark sent shivers down your spine. Those very orbs that stared straight down at you suffocating your chest. "I'm sorry..." You have to keep it together... You worked so hard to earn this man's trust and favor, you planned your way out of this mess... The show must go on The fae walked towards your direction, inching closer and closer. The air around you seemed suffocating as it became harder to breathe. The man you despised the most... the man you detested most... held your chin up to face him as he towered over your figure. Malleus brushed away a stray hair in your forehead. His peridot eyes that looked like gems allured you, they shone brightly despite the fact that both of you were surrounded by plain darkness. You felt small in his precence...

The fae held unto both of your cheeks as he placed a small gentle kiss atop your forehead. Almost af if it was done in a loving manner... He rested his forehead in yours, darting his gaze back unto yours. "I love you, my darling..." His eyes pierced your soul as a cold sweat ran through your spine. You were speechless, tongue was tied, no words escaped your lips. Growing paler by second, colors leaving your face. A shiver went down your spine as the dark fae held unto your neck, grasp tightening as moments pass. Your pulse and your heartbeat ringing in your ears, your brain was set in a frenzy as hands tightened around your neck. Caught up in a moment of hysteria, the lack of oxygen caused you to gasp for air, as you stared at the glowing pair of eyes inches above you. Your stomach churns, adrenaline rushed up your body. You forced yourself to say the words that left a disgusting taste in your mouth... "I love you too..." Your lips curved up forming a weak forced smile as a pair of lips devoured yours. A distinct taste of bitter sour berries spreads inside your mouth, like a deadly disease blooming in chaos...

Rays of warm sunlight lit the stagnant bedrooms. Buried in silken sheets and velvet pillows, cold fingers held you tightly in slumber. Like a nightmare that paralyzed your body, the fae embraced you closely, merley inches apart from one another. How you wished to wake up from this nightmare... Staring blankly at the ceiling, thousands of thoughts lingered on your mind. You wanted to disappear from this sick fate that bounded you to where you are. You closed your eyes, wishing when it opens, you're back in the safety and comfort of your real home.

Day after day, you struggled aimlessly under the grasp of the fae. You felt like life was taken away from your grasp, making you an empty shell of your former self. Smiles became meaningless. Laughter became dull. Your vision painted gre, colors began to burn out... The only thing that's bound to keep you breathing is the hatred you bore for the man you loathed. So you made yourself a show to put on. A mere act of rotten love, like a lovesick songbird chirping lies after lies. The fae believed the deceptive love you showed, drunk in his delusions. With each fables that escaped your lips, a nauseating taste lingers on you mouth.

Now you've come this far. You felt broken beyond repair. The once colorful life you've lived feels like a vivid dream you hopelessly graps on. No means of escape under clutch of the sickening man you despised. How ironic life can be.... Hope keeps us breathing, only to kill us at the end. But this time hope is not the only reason for you to be breathing. Seething hatred you bore against Malleus plagued your mind day and night. How you wished your hatred and insanity bore fruit...

Morning dew drops dripped from the lush leaves of the white rose petals. In the garden of the diasomnia halls, there you stood caught in a daze not knowing what to do. You sat down in the lonely table in the middle of the lonesome rose garden. White flowers adorned the scenery as you pick up your cup and took sip of your bitter tea. "How dull..." You flipped  the pages of the worn out book in the midst of your fingers. You savor your sweet time indulging in your pseudo freedom while the fae is away.

In between the crumbling book you held, lies a small note stuck in between the pages. The note you've been reading for the past few weeks, contemplating on it's contents. A wicked smile plastered across your face as you peered unto the dagger that sat across the table. But your vision shifted to something far more interesting... The flask that accompanied the lone dagger. The flask with intricate designs and patterns that's bound to intrigue anyone. The very flask you stole from Malleus' study... "It's time..."

You took a last sip of the tea in your cup. The unpleasant taste still lingered in your mouth. You took the silver dagger beside the glass bottle, charmed by the metal adorned with dainty rose carvings. You sighed as you ponder on whether you're doing something right. "The right thing to do? What a joke..." A broken smile plagued your face as you look up the heavy skies threatening to pour at any moment.

The dagger in your hands pierced the smooth skin under your wrists. Scarlet hues dripped down your arms with each slash of the white metal. What a bore... None of this is painful... Has reality really became dull for you to be this numb to not even feel pain? How disappointing for yourself. Are you even human at this point? Oh right... You died once upon a time when you kissed the man you despised.

As the sunset melted in the dark grey skies, raindrops dripped from the heavens yet again. You felt like time was running out pointing the dagger in your chest. Metal prickling your collarbone, blood spilt unto your dress. A stab across the chest as sweet vermilion ichor gushed from your torso, staining your fingers bright scarlet red. The metal dug deeper under your flesh, followed by a wail escaping your lips. 

"What are you doing!" An ear piercing scream echoed in between the thunders and rain. Malleus raced towards your direction with raging fury evident in his eyes. burning peridot orbs devoured your vision as the fae loomed over your figure. Crouching unto the muddy ground, Malleus asked again "What do you think you're doing?" Possessive chartreuse eyes piercing you deeper than the metal in your chest. A scoff left your mouth as a loathsome grin surfaced your face, a sneer ridiculing the fae before you. A moment of silence passed, but the fae's fury began to grow more with each passing second. Green flames devoured the rose gardens. The very flames that suffocated you. "You're a monster" you said under your breath as a mocking grin graced your lips.

"Then make me the monster that will forever be your nightmare my love..." The fae pulled the dagger out your chest as more blood gushed and pooled under you. "How foolish humans can be... Didn't I tell you? no matter what you do, you cannot escape from me. Even if you ran away to another world.. I’d find you wherever you’ll go. Now let’s stop this twisted game we’re playing before I change my mind." Green flames engulfed your figure for a brief moment.  "ARGHHH!" A weep escaped your lips as you felt the pain from the flames burning the life out of you. The cuts in your wrists and your supposedly wounded chest is nowhere to be seen. Like a vivid dream that never happened. 

You looked at your pathetic state sitting down in the muddy grass as malleus hend unto your arms. Pools of red blood stained your white dress. The rain wailing as the thunders roared in the distance. Green flames engulfing the rose bushes despite the raindrops pouring. You stared at the dagger in your lap that stabbed your flesh, yet the supposedly wounded places are smooth and flawless. No sign of scar or wound to be seen. Nothing...

You stared at the man before you. Towering over your figure, Malleus put a hand on your cheeks as he dries off the droplets that hit your face. Peridot eyes stared down at you. The anger and disappointment still present in his eyes as green flames swallowed the gardens. Oddly enough, this moment you felt nothing, just an empty void inside you, no means of escaping this nightmare. Nothing... Absolutely nothing... No fear, No remorse, No hatred, No Love.

"You cannot escape me, my darling. No one in this twisted world will love you as much as I do. I am your one true love and  I hope you won’t forget that..."  Threats that are masked by sweet sugary words like cheap rotten candies... How disgusting... "Are you sure about that My Love??" Mocking the fae with your words, you inched closer to close the gap that seperated the both of you. Lips mingled with each other, but instead of a sweet reaction from an innocent kiss, The fae violently reacted as he pulled away grabbing unto both your wrists.

"What did you drink?"  Burning eyes that gleamed fury and anger... What a sight to see... The taste of bitter tea mixed with rotting flavors still lingered in your mouth. A wicked smile plastered across your face, you replied "I wonder what it was?" Sharp nails dug under your flesh. Scarlet liquids dripped across your arms. Eyes burning with rage stared down at you. Green flames that glowed surrounded the both of you. Booming thunders echoed up the sky. Loud raindrops hitting the grounds grew louder.

You reached for your pocket to hold out the note you were reading for weeks now. "Eternal slumber" 2 words made the great Malleus Draconia insane. 2 words that destroyed the pseudo world the both of you lived in. 2 words that set aflame to both of your twisted worlds.. 2 words that will set you free from this joke you call life.... Freedom tastes sweet.

"You’re not allowed to leave me... what have you done? Don't do this to me... stop joking around... Y/n you love me right" Eyes brewing with insanity darted their gaze unto you. The man drowning in delusion was drunken in madness. Pale hands made their way to your neck, ice cold fingers gripped your skin as black nails dug your flesh. "Even if I have to use every spell, every magic, I'll make sure to make you wake up and punish you. y/n you won’t escape from me." Tears fell from the fae's face as madness devoured both of your souls. Hands that gripped your neck tightly shook. As Malleus let's go of you. The fae embraced you rigidly, burying his face in the crook of your neck. A weep escapes his lips "Y/n dont leave me..." salty tears trickled down your neck. Alas, you cannot savor this victory for long.

A mocking grin graced your face for one last time. The sky seemed to settle down, but the flames burned brighter. Triumph....this was your sweet triumph... It's funny how you won but now you've lost so much. In fact, you've lost everything now, even yourself.....how sad.... Your eyes began to grown heavy, you simply felt tired. "Goodnight." Your eyes closed shut, never to open again. Unless with a kiss of true love, eternal slumber shall devour you.

The End....

HGNNNNN MALLEUS WAS THE EASIEST TO BULLY OK!? I wanted to do vil, but I'm sweating too much, I can't even think of a concept🤦🤦 oh wait I actually have one..... But that's for another day( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

Hope y'all enjoyed this low quality yandere time!🥺🥺🥺🥺

Tagging: @ghostiebabey u said tag u if I make yandere content..... Shame on me for this😔✊

[vs-impostor]

[rebelliouslala]

Sinners: The Beginning of the End

The tarot cards in order: The Hanged Man, Reversed. The Lovers, Upright. The Chariot, Reversed.

A collab with the Arcana Love Readings, the cards are above! 

1.3k words

Yangyang x Y/n angst, slight horror and cursing, a mention of gore and a bad ending. Character death and tied in with the Seven Deadly Sins. 

A/n: this is the ending of the fic actually, the fic is about y/n’s travels and more on what happened between you and yangyang, so yeah enjoy, it kinda feels good to be back and not dead!

credit to nakamotens! for the gif <3

“Yangyang.”

You stand at the ridge, the heavy wind picking up the crumbs of the red earth and blowing it across your tattered servant outfit.

The Pride territory of the young demon is empty. The other territories of Sin were filled; Decorated and exploited with their signature.

The only thing you could tell was Yangyang’s was the royal purple throne. It was made out of the earth and and sprouted out of the ground. However the thing that really made it a throne was the seat itself.

You did not recognize the demon in front of you standing in front of it, brushing off the crumbs.

This land was thrice the terror versus the others. With it’s emptiness came your shock to him. How barren, he seemed since the last time you both have seen each other. You step forward to the demon, as he is still.

“You came.” The man said simply as he turns to you, and you can see this scars. The scars that Satan had given him. Obviously, the ruler of Hell did not give his demon mercy on your behalf.

“Yang,” you say quietly, your lips becoming shut together as the demon of pride crosses his arms. “The final game. You have to come to me.”

You frown, shaking your head softly, feeling your head, your body become heavy with weight. Is this really the fate of you and he? To convince him to stay. Be a man. Run away, far away from the hands of Satan and the brothers that plague him. 

You shake your thoughts of the things you have learned on your journey to your beloved. What tortured and changed him. You gulp and look at him as he sits on the small throne, “Well, this is your last day; and chance. Are you just going to be mute?”

You open your mouth and only a small croak hops out. You tear up at the thought and look back down. You have fought your way here, past all of the rest of the sins, facing flashbacks of the grotesque words to pin you down and submit. You needed to say something to just bring him back. Bring back the Yangyang you know and love.

“I know what you’ve been through. W-What everyone has. You and the others don’t have to do this. You don’t have to be the monsters Satan wants you to be!” You say, your voice cracking as you can feel the hot tears start to pour, and you sniffle, feeling your throat burn. “Yangyang, just take my hand. Let’s just forget this.”

The man looks over, and he looks at your hand. The wind whips again, and his hair goes to the side, revealing the streaks of the purple pride sin and his deer like antlers, intricate and nearly twice as large as him. He looks at you again and softly raises his arms, before you hear a smack.

The clapping rhythm was even, which made it somehow more unnerving and uncomfortable to take before he gazes on you and smiles. His smile made you step back, and you feel sick. You gulp looking at him as his eyes glow.

“You sick little thing. I can see it in you.” He sang to himself, and you widen your eyes at the endless fangs he holds as teeth.

“S-see what?” You say, gulping quietly, feeling a knot on the back of your throat. His voice echoes, and was deeper than usual.

This wasn’t him.

“I have trained for, awhile now I guess.” He walks to you, and you realize what the rest of what he is. He wears a long cape, that grew in length and width with each step. His face is painted, his lips popping with purple and his eyes glowing lavender as his skin writhes with feathers before disappearing back to his natural skin color. His pants are tight, loose at the ends of his feet, flashing from goat hooves, fins, a horrifying image of gore before hidden behind raw cow skin shoes.

The setting around him changed as well. As he walked you watch the earth crack, before trees sprout and grass become as high to his thighs. Flowers sparkle on the ground beside the trees and gather together in packs. The sun shone bright from behind him. The wind whips harshly around you both again, and you shiver at him.

“Dad taught me a lot. Did you know the beginning of sinning amongst humans is with their pride? It has something to do with their ideals. They want to, let’s say, give clothing away, but not their food or money? Gluttony and greed eat them up whole. Envy soon comes in for the people in the best clothing.” His shirt twirls before he shows his chest and he smirks gently to himself, “Wrath takes place when they have nothing. Lust for a desire of clothing. And Sloth when they cannot do anything more, or to even slow their progress down, until they are so corrupted we can kill them with ease.”

Yangyang stands at the edge across from you. Only two yards away. You pant, your eyes widening as you can recognize the territory behind him. He reaches his hand out to you, “I am fine here.”

“N-no you’re not!” You cry out, croaking again.

“I am. I am the gifted child compared to the others. I am the beginning of every single Sin. I touch them to see their morals, their deepest secrets. I know yours, and I know what you want.”

“Yangyang this is not you!” You scream at him, ignoring what he made. The childhood playground you had with him, in Satan’s palace.

The demon flashes again and you flinch before you hear a crumble.

“You just want peace. You want to forget what you had helped Satan do to us. By making me not what I am, you are ignoring what Satan has done to everyone.” His arms and chest lower and he touches the scar from his neck to his pelvis, “How can I forget what he has done to me, Y/n?”

You cry more as he looks at you and smirks, leaning forward and his hand extends further, “So, what is it going to be, hm? Failing me, as you already did, or joining me?”

Yangyang watches you crumble to your knees and as he walks on the air, the wind blows again whilst you crane your neck to look up to him. Your face is disfigured, your eyes closed but as you open them Yangyang can see the true moral inside you. He flinches but his face stays dead still.

You scream something, but the wind howls over, as you go limp, fading into ash and away from his sight.

“Is it done, Pride?” A voice rumbles behind him. The garden delusion fades away, and Yangyang stops.

“Yes, Your Highness.” He turns back, bowing. “They are gone.”

“Good. Let us go to the Moral Realm. It is time.”

The two walk, the other sin demons appearing. Sicheng wears a brown hoodie and dark grey sweatpants, on his phone, his horns hanging low. Kun appears next to Yangyang, widening his eyes, but looking at the ruler of Hell, he straightens himself up, wearing a suit and a bright devil red tie.

The other members appear, all transforming in and out of their disguises and demon forms.

A portal in the middle of the territories cracks above, and in order of age, from Kun to Dejun, they step in. Yangyang steps up the glass staircase, gently looking at the disguise of Guanheng. His brother looks over, before avoiding his eyes and entering through the black hole, soft screams following.

The man of pride stops, and he looks at his land. He feels another soft breeze across his hands. He nods ever so gently as he mumbles to himself, holding his palm to where his heart is, “I loved you too.”

With another step to the top, the Seven Deadly Sins became one with the Earth; forevermore.

[the-slasher-files]

DIFFERENT PREDATORS - chapter 2 

INCLUDES ANDREI KULOKOVA x XAVIERA LAH-MO

Literally the perfect pair in slasher heaven, or I guess hell. This chapter gives you just more Andrei backstory and a look into his strengths and weaknesses. This little kitten is breaking him down, slowly but surely. If you haven’t already, check out part one.... enjoy 🔪💕

Please go read the chapter from @horrorslashergirl oc: Xaviera’s perspective linked HERE

MASTERLIST

Andrei leaned his head against the wooden headboard, closing his eyes, trying to just still his always active mind. Breathing deeply in and out around his cigarette that hung lazily from his mouth, ashes threatening to fall and burn his naked chest. 

Turning his head to the window he just watched the snow fall hard, whipping around by the careless harsh mountain winds with sharp icy eyes. He could smell something good beyond the tabacco smoke littering the bedroom air; it was warm and hardy, something from home perhaps. 

With that the woman walked into the bedroom again, carrying a tray of food like she said she would bring him and putting it on the nightstand. Two bowls of stew, again one of his favorites. The little lady was tugging at his tough soul through his taste buds. To his surprise she grabbed one of the bowls and sat in the old arm chair near the end of the bed.   

Andrei took the bowl placing it in his lap, continuing to watch her as she spoke “It’s not poisonous if that’s what you’re wondering. If I wanted you dead I would have left you to the wild animals in the snow.” He gave a huff at her fierce personality, it was endearing, cute even.

Looking down at the bowl Andrei took a generous spoonful, closing his eyes savoring the rich flavors of the vegetables and rabbit meat; reminding him of home and his mothers recipes. 

“I’ve been through worse, myshka.” The wolf told her with a smirk. Letting silence fall, and just listening to the cold wind howl, and tree branches brushes along the windows. He didn’t often find having company nice, but there was something about the stranger across from him that he enjoyed.   

“Are you going to tell me now who you are and don’t play that stubborn game of telling me a false name, Andrei Kulokova. It’s not that hard to read your dog tags.” She spoke with confidence, not scared at all by him. Andrei’s icy blue eyes widened a little by having his full name called, he didn’t hear it often for no one really knew him, but it sounded so sweet coming from her lips even if her words were laced with venom.  

“If you know my name is only fair to know yours.” Andrei glared harshly, not wanting her to see a trace of his enjoyment, something he was skilled at.  

“Xaviera Lah-Mo.” She answered. Not an American name but something else, from somewhere that was unfamiliar to the mercenary. Andrei finished the warm stew, enjoying every last drop and placing the empty bowl on the nightstand. 

Huffing he decided to try out his bandaged and twisted ankle. The solider had been through some of Russia’s deadliest undercover missions, he had been shot, stabbed, you name it; a twisted ankle wasn’t going to hold him down. Sitting up letting his feet hit the cold hardwood, he felt a small gentle hand push on his broad scarred chest.

Looking at her he glared a stony cutting gaze but she challenged his perfectly back. “Your ankle is twisted, you need to rest.” her order made Andrei raise his brow.  

“What is it your business if I twist my neck?” Placing a big, rough hand on her arm gently, a silent warning for her not to pull a stupid stunt on him. “I know you care too much for me, but try not fall in love.” the wolf smirked flashing his canines, cockiness coating him like an armor. 

Xaviera just rolled her blue eyes, making him huff a silent laugh “Don’t get all high and mighty. I don’t want to drag your stubborn self upstairs…. again.” his hand tightened slightly on her small arm, eyes growing dark  “And don’t make me kick your ass out. There’s a blizzard outside and there are worse killers that I’m sure will love an injured prey.” 

The wolf laughed a sinister deep laugh, eyes devouring the small woman in front of him, inching his face closer with a deadly grin. The battle persisted between the leopard and the wolf. A dangerous game more so of mental strength, each predator wanting to conquer the other.  

“So much fire in such a little frame, darling…” he mused, lightening up his cigarette, blowing smoke in her face, making her venomous eyes intensify. “I like that” Andrei’s grasp becomes tighter on Xaviera’s arm, loose enough for her to escape but hard enough for her to still struggle. She became quietly flustered under his hand that oozed power, she tried to hide it but the solider was trained to read the smallest of body signals. 

“You know… Some of the deadliest animals are very small.” She whispers almost in a hiss, sounding like a cat ready to lunge. Andrei had experiences with small but deadly predators. He grew up with one, and she gave him his largest scar to prove it.  “Don’t make me scratch your eyes out.” the white-haired woman warned him, tugging her arm from his hold but without success.  

The cigarette from between his lips hangs lazily, while he smirks her way. “Come and try it, little kitten.” and there it was again, the slow blush creeping up her neck and onto her fair cheeks. He was breaking her slowly.

“I’m not little.” She spat back, making him raise his brow again, looking her up and down with a little disbelief.

“Have you looked in mirror?” Andrei huffs and pulls her closer to him, imagining a sick fantasy that plagues him daily. “Your neck will be so small under my hand as I squeeze… your trashing will be like nothing to me, little kitten.” He spoke in a deep growl, watching her face form into a snarl, making the Russian smile sickly, canines peaking through open lips once again.

“If you touch my neck I am gonna castrate you, doggie.” The wolf only mere inches away from her face, one of his large and rough hands moves to gingerly run along her thigh, watching her every movement. She was trying to control her breathing, trying not to show the predator any signs of weakness but it was failing. Andrei saw the kitten breaking and it made him only want her more.

“Oh, you would love to get that close to me, wouldn’t you… that intimate.” he moved his hand from her arm to run the back of it along her blushing hot cheek  “You don’t have to ask, baby girl, you know where to find me.” Andrei removes his hands with a little shove. Grabbing the hot earl grey tea from the nightstand, sipping it and holding eye contact. The wolf liked to play with his prey. Toy with it like throwing a mouse around by the tail.  

Xaviera snorted at his naturally sexual ways. She didn’t know just how much the desire was burned within him from his past. “Keep dreaming, asshole. One more of that and I am gonna kick your butt in the snow.”  

Andrei scoffed “Baby, I’m from Russia, the snow and cold is no bother to me.” he tells her with a cocky smirk. The wolf knew this was a different cold than the Russian tundra, and he would be stupid to be out in these mountains for too long, but it didn’t matter, he was winning this battle with the small woman.

“You’re infuriating.” Andrei smiles fully, a rare sight, as she just marched out of the room and he heard her go down stairs.  

The stew feeling warm in his belly and a win of a social battle under his belt, he decided to take a nap, aware that there was a predatory lurking in the cottage Andrei knew he was safe, even if she did grab one of his knives and decided to stab him he knew that wasn’t her style. She was a long range hunter by the fact she had a sniper rifle and her inability to ever get away from him. He could sleep now. Memories of trauma and delusions fell from his brain as the wolf closed his eyes relaxing fully.

------------------------------

Andrei had been awake for about an hour now, just tossing and turning, he was never a good sleeper but especially tonight. He couldn’t seem to get the girl out his mind. The wolf tried to push it off as she was just small, weak and kind of like his sister, so maybe it was his brotherly protection showing it’s head, but laying there longer, his icy cold stare burning in the ceiling above him, Andrei knew this was more. Xaviera seemed to seep into his tough core, a place for only two other women in his life, one that died by his own hands, while the other left him and would occasionally visit him only to almost kill him.  

Grunting and running his hands through his light brown hair and onto his scarred face, Andrei decided to retry his ankle without the small women being there to stop him. He hissed a little putting the full weight of the 200 plus pound predator on it, but he had been through much worse pain. Leaving the bedroom and making it down the stairs carefully, he saw her. She was curled up like a little kitten on a white fluffy blanket in front of the roaring fire. Walking over he quietly towered over her, a wolf watching the prey, watching every little scrunch of her face and every twitch of her hand. Xaviera was beautiful.

The Russian man turned to walk to the maps he had seen displayed on the table but something stopped him, tilting his back to the girl just thinking. The wolf wanted to leave her there, suffering on the hardwood, but Andrei wanted something else. As if her soul knew Andrei was watching with caring ice blue eyes Xaviera let out a small whine. 

“Fuck” He groaned, the soft spot for women threatening to kill him once again. Andrei picked her sleeping frame up in his large arms with ease. She was like a doll to him.

So perfect.... One to take home...

Hobbling a little he made it upstairs, gently placing her in the bed that she let him use. Andrei observed her once more, the wolf nipping at his neck to grab the throat that was displaying her pluse to him, it was just so beautiful, the tendons, the muscles, but Andrei closed his eyes, balling his fists and clenching his jaw. He roughly turned and walked away closing the door behind him. 

Looking over the cottage he found her maps, with little notes written small within the margins, and her arrows pointing to potential hot spots for the poachers. Curiously he looked them over, seeing if she had more information than he did. The solider within him always focused on the hunt. Then he saw the glint of the familiar metal shining in the low light. Grinning Andrei picked up his favorite knives skillfully twirling them around in his hands, but something made him stop. He heard a soft wail coming from the bedroom, and his grasp on the knives turned into a white-knuckle grip instinctively.

The wolf moved quickly across the living room and up the stairs. Wails turned into screams and his heart started to pound against his chest, breathing picked up at the thought of someone else potentially being in the cottage, sneaking past the skilled solider. 

Barging into the bedroom scanning the surroundings, it was just him and the girl. No poachers or other hunters. Just the two predators, alone. 

The wolfs eyes were sharp and cutting, looking at Xaviera who was on the floor, cowering in the corner, just a girl, not a predator any longer. Reminding him of his sister, shaking and hyperventilating, eyes scared and broken. A look he knew all too well. What demons lurked in the night had come for her and it tugged on his cold heart to see anyone go through that. Everyone had a past. Everyone had trauma.

Andrei laid the knives down on the tangled sheets of the bed, walking slowly towards her “sssshh... sssh... myshka” he whispered, bending down in front of her. Eyes still wild he needed to pull her out of this. “hey, hey... sssh... you’re fine” Andrei didn’t reach for her but just waited, allowing her to take as much time as she needed. “Little one, sssh” observing her he settled on the floor and surprisingly Xaviera reached for Andrei, clutching his shirt and resting her forehead against his chest. 

His icy blue eyes widened at the sudden show of affection, but he welcomed it. Carefully placing unsure hands around her shaking frame, feeling her trying to even the breathing that was harshly stuck in her throat. This took him back to Russia, living in a dangerous home, comforting his sister under the moonlight from her night terrors, trying to desperately protect her from the brutal world they grew up in.  Xaviera pulled away suddenly, uncomfortably. Taking a deep breath in and closing her eyes.

“It was nothing.” Xaviera told him in a quiet voice, exiting the bedroom and going downstairs. 

Andrei sat there for a moment, breathing in deeply remembering the harsh reality of the world and how it twisted and fucked over the people within it, beating down even the strongest predators at times. He stood tall, grabbing the knives and sitting on the bed, absent-mindedly playing with them as he watched the snow fall in the night. 

Two predators broken within, made tough with claws and teeth to present and hide the vulnerability under the skin.                                

[minnalaushee]

Chapter I: Ink And Blood

In which the Dancer and the Boy meet through a world of fiction, and decide to pursue the feelings they share towards each other, even if they’ve never met. Is it, then, still a fiction... If what you feel for it is real?

Sealing this pact in verses, ink and blood We ascend from this grey to our own worlds of thought Alive through our fictions, beyond their plain world Are they still delusions when we both feel their call?

Brother, brother, have you lost your mind? To follow this poet, her piercing steel eyes The scent that she leaves as she searches for life Wounded - so deadly - by memories and rhymes 

All self-inflicted

These forms intangible, their call imagination Still you reach for their halo - a pale star of fate So what is real and what's the fable? Transcend perception! 

Brother, brother, have we lost our minds? We're lost here together, so truly we're found As we sway in sync to a song with no sound The world we abandoned, a phantom afar...

Insignificant

So follow my honeyed steel eyes! Follow the dancing mad poet

-S

For all those that followed

[dramyhsturgis]

Halloween 2020, Day 13

(Photo is “Shiver My Bones002″ by bjfrenchphoto.)  

Today I want to highlight two excellent reading recommendation lists from Sublime Horror that are perfect for this spooky season, both written by a scholar whose work I follow with great enthusiasm, literary historian Melissa Edmundson.

Here they are: 1) “Ghost stories by Victorian women, a reading list chosen by Melissa Edmundson” and 2) “Supernatural novellas by Victorian women, a reading list chosen by Melissa Edmundson.”

This is an excerpt from one of the supernatural novellas mentioned in the second list, the ghost story Cecilia de Noël, by Lanoe Falconer (1910):

It was a tall figure in a long grey garment, who carried a lighted candle in his hand. For a moment, startled and stupefied as I was, I failed to recognise the livid face.

"Canon Vernade! You are ill?"

Too ill to speak, it would seem, for without a word he staggered forward and sank into a chair, letting the candle almost drop from his hand on to the table beside him; but when I put out my hand to ring the bell, he stayed me by a gesture. I looked at him, deadly pale, with blue shadows about the mouth and eyes, his head thrown helplessly back, and then I remembered some brandy I had in my dressing-bag. He took the glass from me and raised it to his lips with a trembling hand. I stood watching him, debating within myself whether I should disobey him by calling for help or not; but presently, to my great relief, I saw the stimulant take effect, and life come slowly surging back in colour to his cheeks, in strength to his whole prostrate frame. He straightened himself a little, and turned upon me a less distracted gaze than before.

"Mr. Lyndsay, there is something horrible in this house."

"Have you seen it?"

He shook his head.

"I saw nothing; it is what I felt."

He shuddered.

I looked towards the grate. The fire had long been out, but the wood was still unconsumed, and I managed, inexpertly enough, to relight it. When a long blue flame sprang up, he drew his chair near the hearth and stretched towards the blaze his still tremulous hands.

"Mr. Lyndsay," he said, in a voice as strangely altered as his whole appearance, "may I sit here a little—till it is light? I dread to go back to that room. But don't let me keep you up."

I said, and in all honesty, that I had no inclination to sleep. I put on my dressing-gown, threw a rug over his knees, and took my place opposite to him on the other side of the fire; and thus we kept our strange vigil, while slowly above us broke the grim, cold dawn of early spring-time, which even the birds do not brighten with their babble.

Silently staring into the fire, he vouchsafed no further explanations, and I did not venture to ask for any; but I doubt if even such language as he could command would have been so full of horrible suggestion as that grey set face, and the terror-stricken gaze, which the growing light made every minute more distinct, more weird. What had so suddenly and so completely overthrown, not his own strength merely, but the defences of his faith? He groped amongst them still, for, from time to time, I heard him murmuring to himself familiar verses of prayer and psalm and gospel, as if he sought therewith to banish some haunting fear, to quiet some torturing suspicion. And at last, when the dull grey day had fully broken, he turned towards me, and cried in tones more heart-piercing than ever startled the great congregations in church or cathedral—

"What if it were all a delusion, and there be no Father, no Saviour?"

And the horror of that abyss into which he looked, flashing from his mind to my own, left me silent and helpless before him. Yet I longed to give him comfort; for, with the regal self-possession which had fallen from him, there had slipped from me too some undefined instinct of distrust and disapproval. All that I felt now was the sad tie of brotherhood which united us, poor human atoms, strong only in our capacity to suffer, tossed and driven, whitherward we knew not, in the purposeless play of soulless and unpitying forces.

The entire novella is available online here from Project Gutenberg.

[lachlin]

Enough.

It was midday in Stormwind City when Lachlin retrieved his mail.  There was never any good news in the box, just bad and worse (mostly the latter). Today was no different.  Another letter had come to him in the familiar envelope with the familiar scrawl of his name on the front, but he didn’t dare stand in the street and read it.  Instead, he retreated to that apartment above Quelity Imports, and settled in the open window with a pillow at his back.  

Before he tore open the envelope, his eyes fell to the street below.  It was a typical day with typical faces meandering the street; unremarkable and forgettable.  He knew he had been followed because he was always being followed; that’s how this organization worked.  Perhaps one of these strangers’ faces would become familiar the more he looked, and perhaps he would catch a glimpse of the precise individuals that tailed him.  But not yet and not today.

Lachlin looked to the envelope and tore it open with little care.  Whoever had written it deserved none.  Inside was the typical letter, and a black card, embossed with a golden design of flourished brush strokes and an upside-down five-pointed star near the top.  Text near the bottom read, ‘THE DEVIL’.  His attention then fell to the letter:

We have eyes everywhere.

We know where you are walking, who you are talking to.

We know every time you open that window, every breath you take.

You can’t outrun us, and you can’t outrun your fate.

After receiving three of these such letters, they carried less fanfare and fear.  The rogue’s expression was blank as his eyes scanned the words again, the threat within them.  But what was different now was his mind.  He still yearned for the euphoric feeling brought on by a bloodthistle high, but he hadn’t indulged in over a week, and in fact, hadn’t touched tobacco either. The desire for those fleeting moments of fake happiness would fade with time, but the anger Lach had for these people only welled and rose.  Normally, he might try to skulk in the shadows until either everything blew over, or they found and confronted him and made good on their threats.  But they’d made a mistake with the second letter: they’d threatened Yvelian.  And for that, they would pay.

The silver cigarette case was hard to let go of.  There was a time where Lachlin held the case in higher regard than even himself, not because of its physical value, but because of what it represented and who had given it to him.  But the person who had gifted it to him, while in earnest loving the rogue more than anything else in Azeroth, had also encouraged the reckless behavior that had gotten him into so much trouble, and set him on a path that led to this moment.  And in this moment, it was time to let go.

Lachlin pressed the case and every coin he had either saved or would elsewhere never be missed toward the man over the counter, then held out a small piece of parchment with a design scrawled upon it in charcoal.  The owner of Curious Curios, a silversmith with more years in the craft than not, looked at the offering before him, then took the paper, and scanned the vision of the creation he was to bring to life.  He drew a deep breath, then picked up the silver cigarette case next, and flicked a loupe down over one lens of his spectacles for a closer inspection.  

“And when did y’say you needed this by, elf?”

Lachlin hadn’t given his name; it was safer that way.  “Tomorrow afternoon,” he said plainly.  “And when you’re done, burn that piece of paper.  I was never here.”

A slight frown pulled at the aged features of the smith as he continued to examine the etchings in the cigarette case. The monogrammed “L” at the center didn’t detract much from its value.  There were plenty of others who had a name prefixed with that letter, and even still, it might be easily buffed out and customized some other way.  He looked up to perhaps strike a bargain, to save the tiny trinket the destiny Lachlin had asked for, but found himself alone.

The following afternoon was overcast and grey from the rain that swelled in the looming clouds rolling over the mountains.  The rogue, ever aware that he was being followed and watched, had returned from Curious Curios, after he “stole” his purchase back.  A thief casing a shop for trinkets and jewelry one day and returning another to do the deed was unsurprising.  It was also typical and expected of one of Lachlin’s caliber.  He’d done it for the Golden Cards before, and he was a creature of habits not easily broken.

But he hadn’t spent an entire day doing nothing, and he wasn’t without his own contacts and tricks. While not affiliated with SI:7 (then again, who officially was?), everyone who worked in the darker crevices of the city had a contact there, and Lachlin had one last favor he could cash in. As he walked home, he passed by commoner and adventurer alike, bumping shoulders occasionally in the busy bustle of the street.  One such interaction landed a tiny bottle in his hand, and he quickly pocketed without so much as a twitch to his deadpan poker face.  

When he arrived back at the apartment, he was grateful to find it empty.  Yvelian had been a pillar in his sobriety, a beacon of light in his darkness, but the paladin didn’t need to know what Lachlin was up to just yet. He would come clean about that eventually if he wasn’t first found out.  But for now, Lachlin took advantage of the privacy, bolted the door behind him and drew the curtains closed.

In the dimly lit room, he stepped before the lone table, upon which rested an ornately framed mirror the size of a typical piece of parchment.  Before it, Lachlin laid out several objects: a small item wrapped in cotton cloth, the small bottle he had acquired in the street, a handful of wadded linen, and a dagger retrieved from where it was tucked into his belt at the small of his back. The glass bottle was attended to first. It was small, no larger than his thumb to the first knuckle, and sealed with a cork.  Once opened, the concentrated scent of what was undeniably poison drew toward the ceiling; sickly with the familiar piney scent of terocone.  It had been a long time since Lachlin had seasoned a blade with something so deadly, but he attended to it as if the last time had simply been yesterday: calmly and like a practiced ritual.  The rogue poured a drizzle down the length of the dagger, and much like someone would oil a clean blade, he spread and wiped the deadly concentrated concoction toward the tip with the wadded linen, first on one side, and then the other.  When he was finished, the blade found its home again, tucked into the back of his belt.

His gaze fell then to the mirror, then to the small bundle of cotton cloth remaining on the table.  He knew that witnessing what he had commissioned would mean the silver cigarette case was gone forever.  Lachlin sighed as heavy as his heart.  Strength, he knew, could only be found if he was the one that sought it, and clinging to a past that no longer was his to have would not allow him to find it.  This sort of delusion was a game reserved only for those too weak-minded to accept that their world had changed, painfully perhaps, but for the better.  He unwrapped the cloth.

Once he had peeled away every corner of fabric, what rested in his palm was a polished silver piece of ornate mastery.  At the brooch’s core was a skeleton of durable iron, meant to be strong and everlasting, but the silver that clung to the practical piece of the trinket was a work of art.  The silver blossomed and swirled into an ornate design, unmistakably the very same as the one found on the last black-and-gold card he received the previous day.  It was fastened to the pin in such a way that the five-pointed star rested at the bottom, right-side up.  

Lachlin pierced his cloak with the pin and fastened it in place against his collar for all the world to see, but especially for the assholes that kept sending him letters. Displaying a symbol of an organization that lived in the shadows so prominently, in the wrong color, and in the wrong orientation, was sure to draw something out of the murk.  Something that would be made an example of.

He straightened his collar and cloak as he examined himself in the mirror for a last time and pulled the hood back over his head.  When he drew the curtains again and swung open the window, he found the outside to be greyer than before as the storms drew ever nearer.   Lach reclined on the windowsill, bracing his back against the vertical beam of the frame, and gazed down into the street blow where the crowds had thinned to avoid the impending weather.  

And he watched.  And he waited.

[codylabs]

The Grey Star

When people of any modern age begin their lives, they awaken in the very center of an inscrutably long story. A story older than their fathers, and their fathers’ fathers. As aged as the forgotten kings, as ancient as the eldest gods. All people have a part to play in the story, everyone who has ever walked or talked or used a tool, loved or been loved, hated or been hated, conquered or starved. They’ve all done something for which ought they to be remembered, honors and sins, lessons their experience could teach new generations, a point of view, a judgement, a word. Yet tragically, despite all the wisdom and experience heaped upon it, history remembers very little. It remembers leaders and warriors for a time, explorers and entertainers for longer, conquerors longest of all, but every one of them fades with time. Our world continues to circle the giant, the giant continues to circle the sun, the oceans freeze and melt with the seasons, and the stars look on from afar, with both ignorance and apathy. Honors are forgotten, crimes are forgotten, and people are forgotten.

I write this today in the fear that our entire world may be forgotten, alongside the crimes committed against it, and the thing that committed them. So read on, and learn the story that gave birth to me, that gave birth to the Keep, and the war against the visitor from beyond.

It started perhaps 130 years ago by my count, though I do not know when you will be reading this, or how you would convert between the length of our years and your own measure. My great-great-great-grandfather was a boy at that time, if accounts have passed accurately.

It was springtime then, when the oceans were thawing, and people were once more breaking up through the ice. One by one they emerged from the slush, shouldered a backpack, sneezed the water from their gills, and looked about to make sure their countrymen weren’t far behind. These were before the days when we knew how to keep buildings warm enough to endure the winter, so every spring began with a race back to the cities and farms that had been abandoned in the autumn, and each family had to rely on the honor of their neighbors, the fearsomeness of our own reputation, and their good running legs, to make sure they could reclaim their property. (I was not alive for that generation, and do not envy them their annual adventure. My great-great-great-grandfather seemed to remember it fondly, however, so I think many hardships are not recognized in their own time.)

Anyway, it goes without saying that most of the people were preoccupied for the first few days, so I doubt many of them noticed anything amiss. It was only when the livestock had finished thawing, and the steam motors were cranking back up to speed, and the gas was again flowing to lamps, that people had the collective luxury to be able to sit back, take a look around, and notice the third moon which had appeared in the sky.

Unlike the other bleak, rocky spheres around the gas giant, this new moon appeared featureless and cloudy, a drop of grey blood in a pool of still water. It did not reflect the sun’s golden glow or the giant’s greenish color, and it did not show itself in a crescent or a half. Instead it was all aglow as if by its own fuel, ever visible in the sky both day and night and eclipse, almost alike to a dim star.

And it was not orbiting the gas giant, it was orbiting US.

We would be fools not to suspect such a haunting visitor of intelligence or malice, and we are no fools. Our scholars and strategists and other great minds studied it with keen intent throughout that spring, summer, and fall, debating as to its size, distance, origin, and capabilities. Bunkers were dug. Fortifications were erected. Messages were launched as high toward the heavens as we could get them, and words were written on hillsides in as many languages as we could think to write them. Words like “who are you” and “what do you want” and “do not dare attack, for we are prepared.” We did not know what to think, of course, and our diplomacy was as one-sided as our knowledge of the heavens, so I suppose it all sounds a little silly now.

That winter never came. Though the sun receded in the sky and the heavenly spheres continued to turn, our visitor glowed a little brighter and somehow kept the cold away. The livestock never hibernated, our industry never ceased, and though we kept a weary eye turned upward, we prospered and continued, storing up food and supplies out of counting.

The next year, the Summer never came. The ice above us remained thick and unyielding for a year and half a year, and those that managed to chip through reported a sky which never glowed brighter than twilight, choked by a layer of black cloud, which seemed to move and shift on its own accord. Above, many animals died in their hibernation, trees tried to bloom and failed forever, while beneath, a score of underwater wars ravaged our people, as we desperately fought over the scraps of food we had recently thought so plentiful. The cloud was gone when the oceans finally thawed, and our visitor hung low, forcing the oceans into tides by its very presence.

It was then that it introduced itself, with inaudible words that were heard in the mind. Only certain people heard its words, anybody who was intelligent, or ambitious, or proud, or irreverent. “Hello.” The visitor said to its chosen rabble of prophets. “I have been testing your race, both publicly and privately, and you have proven yourselves industrious, hardy, and fierce, admirable and clever enough to be worthy of my interest. I have come to you from far away, to help your people free themselves from their primitive ignorance and their petty delusions. Ask me any question, and I shall answer it with a galaxy’s measure of knowledge.”

“Who are you?” Our prophets asked.

“I am an ancient and wise scholar. Greatest among mortal and immortal alike, and higher than all who ever lived.” Our visitor lied. “I am a light of knowledge to all those who ask. I know everything and can do anything. You may call me the Grey Star.”

“If you are so knowledgeable, then what is the meaning of life?” Our prophets tested it.

“There is no meaning.” The visitor lied. “Life is an accident and a coincidence and has no value beyond the value it assigns to itself. Measured against each other, you are valuable. Measured against me, you are not.”

“Where do you come from?” We asked.

It did not give a true answer.

But some of our prophets asked it more specific and practical questions. “How can we recover from the year of winter you cursed us with?” “How can we heal our broken world?” “How could we have survived our winters without hiding in the ocean?” “Tell us the secret of electricity.” “Is the atom the smallest thing there is?” “How can one transmute lead to gold?” “Is there any manner of bullet which can function underwater?” “

Unlike the other questions, it was to these kinds of selfish scientific inquiries that the visitor offered direct and truthful answers. And by the answers it gave, for better or for worse, our world and our people were forever changed. The ways we moved, and farmed, and fought wars changed. Resources slowly became more plentiful, materials became stronger, tools more effective, machines more numerous, weapons more deadly. By so many peculiar steps down the road of insight, life became larger, grander, more capable.

Electric motors and atomic motors replaced steam motors. Electric bulbs replaced flame. Whirling contraptions in long lines replaced the workers in the factories, and the workers themselves joined the ranks of soldiers. Atomic weapons were invented, outlawed, and used anyway. Medicines were refined. Machines became precise. We wove copper coils into thinking contraptions that could manage mathematics and information and other great feats of thought. Strong vehicles of the land and the sea were improved and refined, and were joined by vehicles of the sky. We learned how better to preserve ourselves and to kill one another. We prospered. We suffered. For decades out of count, we knew no end to the worst kinds of war, while from high above, the Grey Star watched and encouraged.

To this day, I am unclear what it had been attempting to do by contacting our people. Was it trying to instill us with awe and fear for its own glory? Was it trying to give us hope, or take our hope? Was it trying to make us forget God, and become wholly secular? Was it trying to expand the horizons of our knowledge and understanding, to make us into higher forms of life? Was it grooming us into a race of warriors for its own usage? Or was it merely trying to provoke a hungry people into a magnificent spectacle of bloodshed, so as to satisfy its own eons of boredom?

I do not know. It did not say.

But, regardless of its intended message, the message we interpreted was clear: that our mastery over our world was being contested. And we knew, with a grim and crystal clarity, and without a single shred of doubt, from the first moment, to a man, we knew: Our true enemy was the Grey Star.

And it had to be destroyed.

Uhhh just some unfinished nonsense that I thought was fun. Ideas and seeds for stories have been bouncing around my head recently.