#have i ever drawn horror tale?

[alessiamalfoyzabini]

can you make a fic about yan!fboyjk and yan!cheaterjk for me? i don’t have a specific plot in my mind so you can do anything to your liking :))

Pairing | cheater!fboy!yan!Jungkook x Reader

Word Count | 4.242

Warnings | +18, talk about marriage and cheating, smut, dubcon, fingering, vaginal sex, oral sex (f. receiving), Jungkook is sweet but also scary, angst, forced relationship, manipulation

Yandere genre is very strong, if you don't like it, don't read. If you are not of age, don't read. I don't want to hear any complaints in the comments, thank you.

This does not reflect my way of thinking or living at all, it is just a work of fiction, it is like watching a horror movie, many of us love horror movies, but we would never dream of what we see in those movies happening in reality as well.

Simply put, this story was written for entertainment purposes, it should not be seen as a reflection of my values, opinions or morals. I absolutely do not condone such acts.

⤷ Summary | You want to leave Jungkook, but he is not of the same opinion, It doesn't matter if he did wrong, you are his.

➢ Author's Note | Hi, guys! Thank you for the request! I hope you like the story, please ask me for more stories, I am happy to write for you 🥰

You and Jungkook have been always sure about your future, you would get married and live happily ever after like in the most beautiful fairy tale. So why are you crying? Why do you refuse to take your eyes off that scene? Your brain refuses to recognize those angelic features that had caught you in a dense network of colorful, sparkling dreams as a child. That cannot be the same man who swore to you in front of all your relatives eternal love, with a ring in his hand and a wonderful, sweet smile drawn on his lips. Yet who can it be but Jungkook, the man who at that moment holds in his arms a woman unknown to you? You went to the gym to surprise your boyfriend, he had been disappearing for hours for some time under the guise of training for the wedding, he wanted to keep in shape to be perfect for you… just for you. But there he is, at the entrance of the gym whispering something in the ear of the blond-haired woman, who in return smiles cheekily at his joke, running a hand over his strong, trained chest. They seem very close, there is definitely confidence between them. You finally look away, feeling incredibly wrong, and take a step back, then another and another.

You start running in the opposite direction, all to forget that scene, to forget Jungkook's smug eyes staring at a woman who is not you. When you get home you feel incredibly weak, you sit almost collapsing on the bed, in your brain a bunch of ideas start swirling around in your head, ideas that block your breath in your throat. It's not even the first time it's happened, you realize, it's happened before that you've noticed something strange in your relationship, but you've never given it any credence. You don't want to think anymore. Forget, forget, forget.

"Smells good, love," the man leaves a sweet kiss on your neck, pressing his soft lips to caress your skin, "Is my girl getting ready to spoil me yet?" Jungkook holds you tightly in his arms, practically purring against your body. You find yourself smiling between his cuddles, continuing to stir the meat stew simmering in the pot. "You're just saying that because you're hungry," you chuckle gently. You found yourself shaking like a leaf in anxiety for days, believing that sooner or later Jungkook would come to you to tell you that he was leaving you for another woman, but none of that happened, Jungkook is still the same, showering you with attention and adoring you, and still wanting to marry you. Perhaps you had misunderstood the situation, that blond woman must be a friend and you jumped to conclusions, you should have asked Jungkook for explanations, but you still feel something holding you back from doing so. It is fear, a deep and treacherous fear.

"I say this because you are too good to me," he whispers seriously, causing you to turn toward him. His serious eyes chain yours and you feel lost, watching the wonder of that glittering obsidian staring at you encompassing you with possession, Jungkook licks his lips, the rosy soft tip furrowing those inviting petals before he moves closer to you, the electricity between your bodies bursting into lightning bolts as your lips meet, softly joining in an adoring kiss full of dominance. Somehow Jungkook manages to turn off the stove behind you, grabbing your head in a grip that forces you to deepen the kiss under the pressure of his hot tongue pressing repeatedly on your lips to demand access to your mouth. In each touch of Jungkook you lose yourself, accepting the force with which he takes your lips moaning and grabbing a few wavy strands of hair between your fingers. His tongue entwines with yours creating a wet and sensual dance, feeling him slow and hot inside your mouth turns you on in an incredible way. His taste is dope and Jungkook thinks the same of yours, sucking your tongue like delicious candy and smiling. It is always like that, if he wants something, he takes it. And you at that moment happily offer him your body, your feelings and your soul. They are all his.

He grips your hips in his hands, pressing you against his hot body, he needs you and with trembling legs you leave him in charge, he takes you to the couch where he makes you lie down leaving behind a trail of light, soft kisses along your jaw and neck, he stares at you now with half-closed eyes, the man finds himself thinking that you probably don't know how much you are actually giving him. With your clothes now on the floor and your panties lowered to your knees you let your head fall back, clenching your lower lip between your teeth, gentle waves of pleasure envelop your body, Jungkook with one hand travels up your belly to stop at your breasts, which he squeezes possessively as he wraps his tongue around your swollen clitoris, licking and sucking it repeatedly before poking your soggy slit with his fingertips, entering it only slightly, just enough to let your sweet essence out and lick it away with his tongue and enjoy the taste of you that has always driven him wild. You're getting closer and closer to your first orgasm, and you know it won't be the only one; you squeeze his head between your soft, smooth thighs, but he forces you to stay still by pushing his palms on your delicate skin, continuing to eat away at your quivering folds until a wonderful, satisfying sensation grips your belly and explodes into millions of tiny stars behind your closed eyelids.

"Jungkook! S-stop!" you shake your hips trying to make him stop and he stops only after sucking your sensitive pearl against his palate one last time. Kissing your folds and moving up your skin he stops at your belly, licking slowly down to your navel and you shudder still shaken from your orgasm, he only begins to remove his pants and boxers once he reaches your breasts, where he breathes in the scent of your soft skin and takes a delicate nipple in his mouth, attaching it and beginning to caress it with the tip of his tongue, sending delicious shivers throughout your body. "Open those beautiful legs for me, sweetheart," he gives you two light pats on the knee and makes you spread your legs wide, satiating his hungry, smug eyes. He loves the power you let him wield over you. You lick your lips at the sight of his straining, cum-shiny cock, wanting to taste it, to feel that length filling your mouth and leaving you breathless, but Jungkook pushes you back against the couch firmly, shaking his head amusedly. "Later, love," he murmurs finally taking off the tight t-shirt he is wearing, you find yourself gazing at his defined and gorgeous abs with the driest of throats, he doesn't let you touch him to your disappointment, you want to caress his chest, play with his sensitive nipples, but with a firm, hard kiss he guides himself between your legs, sinuously sliding into your wet entrance with his thick, hard cock, you widen your eyes and a deep moan leaves your throat. Your sensitive folds vibrate delightedly with each of his slow, firm lunges, your arms wrap around his neck and your hips move with his, in the room you can only hear the sounds of your bodies coming together and your wheezing moans, Jungkook grunts in your ear something after a particularly hard thrust and your eyes narrow, the thick tip of his cock is hitting a particularly sensitive spot that makes more moisture gush from your pussy.

"Jungkook, I'm coming again," you whimper softly inhaling his scent, the man nods as he continues to press into that sensitive area, and you move his hair behind his ear before leaving a kiss on one side of his neck. Then something makes you miss a beat. You hadn't noticed it before because it was hidden by his rather long hair, but just below his ear is a mark. It looks like a mark- a hickey -the color is tending toward purple and your heartstrings tug painfully.

You drive your nails into his shoulders with frost enveloping your limbs, you don't want to look any further, tears accumulate in the corners of your eyes and Jungkook blames your oncoming climax, he kisses them drying them with his lips and that gesture makes you scream internally, why is he so sweet and attentive? It's not fair, it's not fair, it's not fair. With his free hand he reaches down between your bodies beginning to circle with his thumb around your clit, his pelvis moves faster, he is coming, soon he would fill you with his cum and for the first time ever you find yourself faking an orgasm with Jungkook, your delicate walls tighten around his cock, accompanying him to the end of his pleasure, but you feel nothing more. Jungkook collapses on top of you, kissing your forehead and cheeks, then finishing with your lips, but your heart is shattered. The man you love does not actually love you. "I love you, Y/N," he says, a lie you are no longer willing to believe.

There was always something wrong with the attention Jungkook was getting at school, you often attended the same classes and you always got the evil eyes of the other girls on you, you had even tried to ask the boy why, but he had always explained that they were simply jealous of your relationship and you were not supposed to pay attention to them. And you had believed him, after all, you always believed him. But now you regret giving him all that power.

"Jungkook, do you have another woman?" Your wedding is only a month away, and you can't marry a man who doesn't love you. Jungkook from his side almost chokes on his energy drink, he stares at you as if you had two heads instead of one, you are in the parking lot of his gym, you went to pick him up and you can tell he had recently showered, the ends of his hair are still damp and curled. "Shit, Y/N! Is that something to tell your future husband? We're getting married in exactly one month, heck no! I don't have another woman!" he blurts out seemingly speechless, you tighten your lips in response. "Hey ... Baby, what's going on?" he whispers softly, trying to take your chin between his fingers, but you quickly flinch away from him, who rolls his eyes in response. "What's going on is this, Jungkook," you growl, suddenly lifting some dark locks from his neck, exposing a small but remarkable detail. There are slight bite marks that are healing, you had noticed it a few days before, but you didn't have the courage to point it out, until now.

You're tired, you don't want to put up with such a situation anymore. "Stop teasing me, I hate it when you're so sweet to me, when it's clear that you're having fun behind my back with who knows how many other women!" you shout with glazed eyes, Jungkook immediately losing the confusion etched on his face, finally letting a serious and icy look shine through. "This is not the place to talk about this, Y/N. Let's go home," he hisses, not even trying to deny it one more time. This shocks you deeply. He doesn't seem to care that you finally know the truth. "I really think this is the right place, instead" you don't want to cry, so you hold back your tears by chasing them back, "You lied to me and betrayed me, I don't want to marry a man like you" the disgust in your voice makes him wince, if he thought he was going to solve things by using some bullshit catchphrases, well, he was very wrong. You make to get out of the car, you would have taken a cab rather than be with him again in that cramped and stifling space, you want to vent your emotions in a more secluded place, but Jungkook tightens a hand around your wrist.

"Don't you want to marry a man like me? My love, you may not realize that you have no other choice! We have always been together and we will always be together! You swore it to me more than once and you even did it in front of our parents!" he exclaims fiercely, tightening his grip painfully, you squeeze your eyes shut in pain. "You're hurting me," you murmur terrified by his sudden change. "Well, maybe you deserve it, don't you think?" he asks cruelly. You know Jungkook particularly cares about his parents' judgment, but you didn't think he would go that far to make them happy, so a worse doubt germinates in you. "You never loved me! You only want to be with me because our parents always wanted it that way" you want to vomit, were you really that blind? Jungkook quickly shakes his head, "Of course I love you, even though you're making me angry with this absurd talk of yours." "You don't love me, if you really loved me you wouldn't cheat on me with other women" you find the strength to break free from his grip, your pulse is red and pumping blood quickly. "I-" he freezes, his eyes dark with fury, "You don't understand, you can't blame me alone for all this!"

Jungkook knows he was wrong; in fact, he wouldn't have even wanted to start. But when you got together you were young and you had insisted on losing your virginity only once you had reached adulthood and thus the necessary maturity, you did not want your first time to be driven only by the pure hormonal instincts of two teenagers, and Jungkook had never had the courage to insist, because you seemed quite convinced about your ideas. But he needed what you were unwilling to give him, and so he cheated on you for the first time in a school bathroom after class, and he had hated himself no matter how many more countless times, but the more he got the more he wanted more, and even when you had finally given yourself to him, cheating had become an impossible vice to let go of, and the idea that you would always be left waiting for him was particularly tempting. But now it no longer seems that way; you want to leave, to leave him, and he cannot allow it. "You drove me crazy with your constant 'We're too young' or 'Let's wait a little longer'!" You open your mouth wide in shock, "No, don't blame me! You never told me you were against my ideas, and anyway, that's no reason to betray a person you say you love."

You have to get out of that car, you can't wait a second longer. The situation is worse than you thought, he has been cheating on you since the beginning of your story, you are nauseated. "You disgust me," you say before you open the door, you turn to get out, but suddenly your vision goes black, you feel Jungkook press his hand against your nose and mouth, before wrapping an arm around your neck.

When you wake up you realize you are no longer in the car, but you are not even in your house. The only thing you remember is Jungkook making you faint, then nothingness. You look around and what you see is a small room, the walls are lilac and it's littered with puppets of all kinds and colors, the mirror in front of the single bed you're lying on makes it clear the way you've been dressed. You're wearing a high school uniform and your hands are tied to the headboard, you widen your eyes and try to free yourself by pulling at the fabric used to hold you like that. "You've woken up." Jungkook makes his appearance from the bathroom connected to the small bedroom, he is adjusting his dark blue tie and you also notice his attire, he is dressed in a school uniform just like you. "What does all this mean, is this a joke?" you hiss less than amused, but Jungkook doesn't flinch. "I've come to a conclusion," he says as he approaches the bed, you try to get as far away from him as possible by bringing your free legs to your chest, you don't recognize the man in front of you, "I don't want to cheat on you, ever again."

He seems sincere, but you don't trust him. He has broken your heart too many times to deserve trust from you again. "I don't believe you, you're a liar," you say in fact, Jungkook tightens his lips. "I have my conditions," he says anyway, ignoring your words, "You'll still marry me and we'll make up for all the moments you made us miss," he murmurs dangerously, sitting down on the bed and letting a hand approach your thigh, you become an ice statue instantly, finally understanding the reason behind your uniforms. "You're crazy, I'm not going to marry you and we're not going to get anything back at all, to be honest I haven't had an orgasm with you in weeks, just the thought of a traitor like you touching me makes me lose the will to fuck," you murmur angrily, jerking away from his hand in a stinging manner. Jungkook narrows his eyes into two slits, he wanted to be nice to you, but you just don't understand. He's going to use forceful manners, then. "Why must you force me to hurt you, my love?" You look at him terrified, what does he mean?

"Jungkook, don't do anything you might regret, please." He grips your face hard in his hands, staring at you with those deep, dark pools you've always loved, pinning you in place before snapping a deep kiss. You stubbornly keep your lips tight, but Jungkook bites your lower lip forcing you to scream, his voluptuous tongue immediately making room in your mouth and groaning in protest as he plunders your oral cavity. "You'll change your mind, Y/N, by hook or by crook," he hums in your ear with a veil of amusement shining through his voice-who the hell is this man? Jungkook studies you carefully before running his hands over your hips, you shudder at his touch and his fingers stop above the buttons of your school blouse. "You will have only my body, Jungkook," you say in a colorless voice, trying to escape from that absurd reality, the boy opens your blouse, showing off the lace of your pink bra, he observes the graceful shape of your breasts longingly before returning his gaze to you. "I will have everything of you: soul, heart, body -- everything," he whispers before leaning over you, inhaling your scent straight from your bare skin.

"Where have you taken me?" "Haven't you figured it out yet?" You frown, then finally understand. It is his room from when he was a child, that means-. "We're at your parents' house." Jungkook nods. "Do you remember what happened in this room, Y/N?" Yes, you remember, but you don't want to say it out loud, that would make what Jungkook wants to do real. "You rejected me," he hisses suddenly, ripping your blouse off once and for all, you squeal in fright at his force and widen your eyes. He looks furious, his hands are shaking and his shoulders have stiffened under the weight of his fury, "I wanted you and you walked away! No matter how many times we did it when you made up your mind, you still rejected me and forced me to beg from other girls!" he exclaims, totally delirious before attaching his lips to the visible skin of your breasts, you wriggle trying to push him away, but he is too strong, Jungkook is not there with you. He is lost in his memories and blaming you for his betrayals.

Bitter tears accumulate in the corners of your eyes, it's not your fault. It's not your fault at all, but maybe... maybe if you had been more attentive to his needs, too, you would have been enough for him? When he grabs your pussy from above the fabric of your panties you arch your back against your will, his strong and powerful presence still has its hold on you and you tremble trying to stop yourself, you don't know if you are more scared or excited. "Jungkook-" "Say you're sorry," you widen your eyes. "What?" you gasp, his index finger going under the fabric and circling your slit. "Say you're sorry for rejecting me so many times, say you're sorry for all the times you made me feel like an ugly, worthless little boy!" You shake your head, "I never-" you groan, his index finger penetrating you and gently moving a few inches above your soaked entrance, you stiffen at the flame that suddenly invades your limbs. How does he still do this to you? After weeks spent in total apathy, it is now lighting you up in more ways than one, why?

Then you remember, " I don't want to cheat on you, ever again," are such simple words enough to get your body to react? Your body is corrupted by Jungkook, vibrating under his forbidden touch and practically purring, more moisture gushes from your slit, which widens to envelop the second finger Jungkook adds to his penetration, you are trembling trying not to push your hips against the boy, but it is harder than you thought. "I don't want you," you murmur, shaking your head, Jungkook looking at you firmly, tickling sensitive spots that only he knows and is able to reach. "Say it again as you come on my fingers, my love." An unsettling feeling of warmth swells in your lower abdomen. You deny it once more with your head, trying to stop your trembling legs, but it is too late, your walls tightening around his long, deft fingers, exploding in an orgasm you have longed for. "Why are you doing this to me?" you cry, moving your arms forcefully; Jungkook stops you, preventing you from hurting yourself with the ribbons that bind you.

"I wanted to make you pay for all the times you said no by making me feel like a poor, inexperienced fool," he says clutching your skirt with fingers smeared with your liquid pleasure, "But things got out of hand," he stammers, a stinger reaches your heart and your stomach sinks. You don't want to think about how many times he has devoted himself to another woman's body, it hurts too much. "You never told me about it," your words come out in a breathy voice, you try to hold back the sobs. Jungkook moves on top of you, "We will be happy, Y/N" he kisses your forehead moving between your legs, you feel him unzip his pants and enter you with one thrust, it is easy to enter you, you are completely wet and close your eyes listening to his rough, lustful sighs. His swollen cock moves penetrating you repeatedly, the bed moves under his precise and direct strokes and you squeeze your eyes shut, your clitoris throbbing and quivering seeking more direct stimulation and a sigh escapes your lips when the man presses his pelvis against your pubis, crushing your sensitive pearl while with the tip of his cock he reaches to stimulate a particularly receptive spot, you watch the strands of his hair sticking to your sweat-dampened forehead and his eyes begging you not to leave him.

"Y/N!" he moans your name while squinting, "Y/N!" he pushes harder between your soft walls and pulls with his arms on the ropes that keep you tied to the bed. "Jung-" you bite your tongue, refusing to moan his name, but the boy disagrees and demands that you look at him. "I'm sorry, I'll never cheat on you again, I mean it," he whimpers into your ear, "I only love you, only you," he moans and you find yourself closing your eyes, not wanting to give in, not really wanting to, but... "I'm-I'm sorry...for rejecting you" you stammer, pleasure rising once again and the hope of mending your relationship dancing in your chest, "I'm sorry for making you feel unfit." "The others... I just wanted to prove myself" thus confesses his feeling of inadequacy, you know you shouldn't forgive him anyway, but you love him too much, "But now I realize it's only to you that I have to prove something, forgive me" and so you let yourself be corrupted even in your soul. Just a gesture of your head is enough to allow him to come deeply inside you, your breath quickening as you reach for him clutching him in the deepest part of you, throwing your head back. Moments later he unties the knot that binds you to the bed and kisses your wrists softly, murmuring about how perfect you are for him and that once we were married, all would be forgotten because he only wants you. A tear slides down your cheek.

[seanpultz]

If the Ghostbusters visited The Haunted Mansion

As the four of them stood before the looming Dutch Gothic Revival mansion, the cool evening air whispered through the ancient trees that surrounded the property. The moon cast eerie shadows across the intricate carvings of the building's façade, giving it a sinister countenance that matched the tales of the paranormal activities rumored to dwell within. Dr. Egon Spengler, with his usual air of skepticism, spoke first. "Ray, are you sure we're in the right place?" he asked, glancing at the GPS device in his hand. Dr. Raymond "Ray" Stantz, ever the enthusiast, nodded confidently. "Positive, Egon. The PKE readings are off the charts here." Dr. Peter Venkman, the charismatic leader of the group, leaned against his proton pack with a smirk. "Well, what are we waiting for? Let's go see if we can't catch a ghost!" Dr. Winston Zeddemore, the stoic and pragmatic fourth member, took a deep breath. "Alright, let's get to work," he said, adjusting his gear. The Ghostbusters approached the mansion, the sound of their footsteps echoing through the quiet night, ready to face whatever spectral beings awaited them inside.

The quartet of Ghostbusters ascended the grand stone steps leading to the mansion's imposing entrance, their boots clicking against the cold cobblestone path. The heavy oak door creaked open, revealing a pair of somber maids and butlers dressed in attire that seemed to have been plucked straight from the 19th century. They silently beckoned the Ghostbusters inside with a ghostly wave of their hands. As they stepped into the foyer, the flickering candlelight danced across the walls, illuminating the rich tapestries and dark wood that filled the space. Their eyes were drawn to the large portrait hanging above the roaring fireplace – it depicted a stern gentleman with piercing eyes and a well-groomed mustache. Yet, as they approached, the painting began to warp and shift, the man's features morphing into a grisly visage of decay.

"When hinges creak in doorless chambers, and strange and frightening sounds echo through the halls. Whenever candlelights flicker where the air is deathly still — that is the time when ghosts are present, practicing their terror with ghoulish delight!"

The Ghostbusters exchanged wary glances as they were guided into the octagonal portrait gallery, the atmosphere thickening with anticipation. The wall behind them slid shut with a thud, sealing them in the dimly lit space. The flickering light from the candelabras lining the walls cast a macabre glow on the faces of the stern figures in the paintings, making their expressions seem to shift and twist as if alive. Suddenly, a chilling voice resonated through the chamber, sending a shiver down their spines. "Welcome, foolish mortals," it intoned, "to the Haunted Mansion. I am your host, your ghost host. Our tour begins here in this gallery." The portrait of the stern gentleman from the foyer now spoke to them, his eyes following their every move. "Here, where you see paintings of some of our guests as they appeared in their corruptible, mortal state," the Ghost Host continued, his tone a mix of amusement and menace. "Kindly step all the way in, please, and make room for everyone. There’s no turning back now." The floor beneath them trembled, and the portraits' eyes grew wider, the figures appearing more animate with each passing moment. The Ghostbusters steeled themselves, proton packs at the ready, as the air grew colder and the whispers of the long-departed grew louder.

“Your cadaverous pallor betrays an aura of foreboding, almost as though you sense a disquieting metamorphosis. Is this haunted room actually stretching? Or is it your imagination, hmm…?”

The Ghostbusters' eyes darted up to the four elongating portraits, their expressions a mix of horror and disbelief. "Well, this is definitely not your run-of-the-mill spectral activity," Venkman quipped, trying to keep his cool. The bearded man in the portrait looked as though he had been caught in a tragicomedy, his grin frozen in a moment of absurd terror. The young woman's serene composure on the tightrope was unnerving, her eyes locked onto theirs as if she knew they were watching. Constance Hatchaway's portrait was a gruesome sight, her eyes following them around the room as though judging their every move. The man on the mustached gentleman in the quicksand portrait's face was a twisted mask of desperation. The air grew colder, the whispers grew louder, and the floorboards beneath them began to groan as if the house itself were alive.

“…And consider this dismaying observation: this chamber has no windows, and no doors… which offers you this chilling challenge: to find a way out! Of course, there's always my way…”

With a dramatic flourish, the lights in the portrait gallery abruptly winked out, plunging the Ghostbusters into a blackness so absolute that it seemed to press down on them. A cacophony of thunder rumbled through the mansion, the sound of the storm outside now trapped within the very walls that threatened to close in. The sudden flash of lightning illuminated the grinning skull of the Ghost Host hanging from a noose in the cupola high above, his lifeless eyes seemingly peering into their very souls. The sound of bones shattering echoed through the darkness, sending a collective shiver through the group. "Egon, what's the plan?" Winston's voice was steady despite the horror unfolding around them. "We need to find the source of this disturbance and contain it," Egon responded, his voice a beacon of calm amidst the chaos. The four Ghostbusters huddled together, their proton packs humming in the darkness, ready to face whatever lay ahead.

"Oh, I didn’t mean to frighten you prematurely. The real chills come later. Now, as they say, 'look alive," and we’ll continue our little tour. And let’s all stay together, please."

As the thunder subsided, a previously unnoticed section of the portrait gallery wall glided open, revealing a hidden corridor shrouded in darkness. The Ghost Host's cackle echoed through the passageway, beckoning them deeper into the mansion's bowels. The Ghostbusters, their proton packs glowing like neon beacons in the gloom, cautiously moved forward. The walls of the corridor were adorned with more portraits, each one seemingly more disturbing than the last. As they ventured further, the floorboards creaked in protest, the air grew colder, and the whispers grew more insistent. They could feel the malevolent presence of the spirits trapped within the paintings, their eyes burning into the backs of their heads. "Remember," Egon reminded them, his voice a low murmur, "we're not here to fight them all. We need to find the epicenter of the haunting." The corridor grew narrower, the walls closing in, and the portraits' eyes seemed to follow their every step. Then, without warning, the floor gave way, sending the Ghostbusters tumbling into the abyss below.

The Ghost Host's laughter faded as the Ghostbusters picked themselves up from the dusty floor, now standing in a dimly lit loading area. The air was thick with anticipation and a hint of mechanized scent.

"And now, a carriage approaches to carry you into the boundless realm of the supernatural. Once on board, remain safely seated with your hands, arms, feet, and legs inside. "

The Ghost Host's lowered the safety bars of the Doom Buggies lowered with a metallic clank. He recited his scripted warnings with a sinister smile, the candelabrum above casting a flickering light that played upon his shadowy features. The Ghostbusters, now seated in the spooky vehicles, couldn't help but feel a twinge of unease as the carts began to move, gliding effortlessly through the mansion's secrets. The portrait corridor stretched ahead, a silent witness to the horrors they had yet to uncover. Each flash of lightning outside transformed the mundane into the macabre, revealing the true, twisted nature of the artworks. The demure young woman's hair morphed into a writhing nest of serpents, the majestic ship was torn apart by the tempestuous sea, the man's opulent attire shredded to expose his skeletal fate, and the lady of the house transformed into a snarling were-tiger. The air grew heavier with each grim revelation, the very fabric of reality seeming to warp around them. Yet, they remained steadfast, their eyes fixed on the grim tableau before them, ready to face whatever the Haunted Mansion had in store.

"Oh yes, and no flash pictures, please. We spirits are frightfully sensitive to bright lights."

The Ghostbusters' Doom Buggies rolled under an archway adorned with cobwebs and dusty chandeliers, entering a library that seemed to have been frozen in time. The eerie silence was broken only by the rustle of pages and the occasional clatter of a book falling from its shelf. The room was a labyrinth of towering bookcases, their shelves groaning under the weight of tomes that hadn't seen the light of day in centuries. The busts of long-dead scholars stared down at them with vacant eyes, seemingly aware of the intrusion. The sight of a ghostly librarian, floating on a ladder that moved of its own accord, sent a chill down their spines. Meanwhile, a rocking chair in the corner swayed to the rhythm of an unseen occupant, the flickering candlelight casting eerie shadows across the pages of an ancient tome. The scent of aged paper and dust filled their nostrils as they moved through the spectral scene, the whispers of the trapped spirits echoing through the vast space. They knew they were getting closer to the heart of the haunting, and their anticipation grew with each passing moment.

"Our library is well-stocked with priceless first editions — only ghost stories, of course — and marble busts of the greatest ghost writers the literary world has ever known."

The Doom Buggies rolled into the next chamber, revealing a once-elegant music room. A ghostly figure in a tattered tuxedo sat at a dusty grand piano, its ivory keys yellowed with age. The shadowy musician's spectral fingers danced over the keys, playing a mournful melody that resonated through the room. Behind the piano, a window looked out onto a tempestuous forest, lightning illuminating the twisted branches that clawed at the glass. The stormy scene was so lifelike that it was hard to discern if it was a painting or a window to another realm.

"They have all retired here, to the Haunted Mansion. Actually, we have 999 happy haunts here. But there’s room for 1,000. Any volunteers?"

The Doom Buggies ascended into a realm where gravity seemed to have abandoned all sense, entering a room that mirrored the mind-bending art of M.C. Escher. The staircases twisted and turned in impossible angles, leading to nowhere and everywhere at once. The Ghostbusters clung to the bars of their carts as the world around them tilted and spun. The cacophony of echoing footsteps grew louder, the glow of green light grew stronger, and suddenly, the stomping ceased.

"If you should decide to join us, final arrangements may be made at the end of the tour."

They found themselves in a hallway lined with thousands of blinking eyes, the pupils dilating and contracting in a hypnotic rhythm. The wallpaper around the eyes began to shift, revealing the grimacing faces of demons, leering and laughing at their disorientation. The room grew colder, the laughter grew more malevolent, and the Ghostbusters knew they had entered the domain of the Haunted Mansion's most powerful and disturbed spirits.

"We find it delightfully unlivable here in this ghostly retreat. Every room has wall-to-wall creeps, and hot and cold running chills. Shhh, listen!"

The Ghostbusters rounded a corner and came face to face with a living suit of armor, its visor gleaming in the candlelight. The chair in the corner of the room had a hidden abstract face, embroidered into the fabric with such craftsmanship that it seemed to leer at them. The most unsettling sight, however, was the long, narrow corridor that stretched down the center of the parlor. A candelabrum floated eerily down the hallway, casting grotesque shadows on the walls that danced and stretched like the elongated figures in the portrait gallery. "Wow, talk about a blast from the past," Ray whispered in amazement, his eyes wide with wonder. "These are some serious poltergeist pranks."

The Ghostbusters' Doom Buggies made an unexpected twist, spinning them around to face the conservatory. The room was a ghastly sight, adorned with lifeless bouquets and a pervasive aura of decay. At the center of this floral tomb, a glass room stood out, showcasing a morbid tableau. The sight of the coffin with its lid pried open by skeletal hands sent a shiver down their spines. The desperate cries of the trapped soul within filled the air, a haunting plea for freedom. "Egon, what do we do?" Winston's voice was tight with tension. "We need to keep moving," Egon replied, his eyes never leaving the coffin. "The source of the haunting is stronger now. We're getting closer." The raven, seemingly unfazed by the chaos, cawed mournfully, adding to the symphony of the supernatural. The Ghostbusters' proton packs grew heavier with each step, the weight of their mission pressing upon them as they moved through the room, surrounded by the lifeless beauty of the conservatory. The cries grew louder, more insistent, and the green glow from the coffin grew brighter, pulsing with a sinister energy that seemed to call out to them. They knew they had to act fast before the situation spun even further out of control.

The Ghostbusters' Doom Buggies emerged from the conservatory and into the shadowy corridor, the portraits of the once-noble family now grotesque and decayed. The eerie sound of unseen doors rattling and the disembodied knocking of ghostly fists sent a chill through their bones. The air grew thick with the scent of decay and the cacophony of whispers grew to a crescendo, as if the very walls were alive with the tormented spirits of the mansion's past. To their left, the portrait of the Ghost Host grinned morbidly, his noose tightening around his neck in a silent taunt. The door beside it appeared to breathe in and out, the wood swelling and shrinking as if alive. The two demonic reliefs on the walls seemed to leer at them, one with a malicious smile, the other snarling with malevolent intent. The corridor grew more claustrophobic with each step, the weight of the unseen eyes upon them unbearable. They approached the end of the hall, where the skeletal hands of the trapped spirit fought against the sealed door, the emerald glow of spectral energy pulsing from within. The grandfather clock chimed out the thirteenth hour, its pendulum swinging erratically, the shadow of a monstrous claw racing across its face. The Ghostbusters knew that beyond this door lay the heart of the haunting, and the fate of the 999 souls trapped within the Haunted Mansion. They tightened their grips on their proton packs, bracing themselves for the battle that awaited them.

The Ghostbusters' Doom Buggies shuddered to a halt in the séance room, the air thick with anticipation and the faint scent of incense. The walls were adorned with floating musical instruments, their strings plucking and bows moving as if played by invisible hands. At the center of the room, a round table was set with an eerie spread of arcane tools and a crystal ball, within which the disembodied head of Madame Leota bobbed menacingly. Her ghostly visage sang out the incantation, summoning the mansion's spirits to join in her macabre symphony. The instruments grew more frenzied, their tune a cacophony of discordant notes that seemed to resonate with the very essence of the room. The Ghostbusters could feel the power building around them, the air crackling with the energy of the spirits they had been sent to contain. They watched as a set of spectral hands began to materialize from the crystal, reaching out to touch the instruments, their icy fingers leaving trails of mist as they danced across the strings.

"Serpents and spiders, tail of a rat/Call in the spirits, wherever they're at./Rap on a table, it's time to respond/Send us a message from somewhere beyond./Goblins and ghoulies from last Halloween/Awaken the spirits with your tambourine./Creepies and crawlies, toads in a pond/Let there be music from regions beyond./Wizards and witches wherever you dwell/Give us a hint by ringing a bell."

Then the Ghost Host spoke again, "The happy haunts have received your sympathetic vibrations and are beginning to materialize. They’re assembling for a swinging wake, and they’ll be expecting me… I’ll see you all a little later."

The Ghostbusters leaned over the balcony railing, taking in the surreal scene unfolding in the grand ballroom below. The spectral soiree was a whirlwind of activity, with ghosts of all shapes and sizes moving in a ghostly masquerade to the haunting tune of "Grim Grinning Ghosts." The air was electric with the energy of the otherworldly festivities, the very essence of the mansion's haunting distilled into this one, maddening waltz. They watched as the merry ghost on the mantle gave the bust a playful wink, the elderly spirit knitting away, and the macabre duelists reenacting their eternal battle across the room. The waltzing couples floated through the air with an ethereal grace, their dance partners a testament to the mansion's grim history. The coffin from the hearse lay open, its occupant now lost in the swirling mass of spirits.

"Wow, this place is something else," Venkman murmured, his eyes darting from one spectral sight to the next.

"It's like we've stumbled into a Salvador Dali painting," Ray said, his voice filled with a mix of awe and unease.

"The energy readings are off the charts," Egon noted, his PKE meter beeping wildly in his hand. "We need to find the focal point of this haunting before it gets out of hand."

"Looks like we've got our work cut out for us," Winston said, his gaze lingering on the grinning duelists.

As the Ghostbusters observed the chaotic dance below, Egon's eyes fell upon a previously unnoticed entrance to the attic. "Guys, I think we've found the source," he said, pointing upwards. The door at the top of the stairs was slightly ajar, and a sickly green light seeped through the crack. The air grew colder, the whispers grew more frantic, and the shadows cast by the flickering chandeliers grew darker and more malevolent. "We need to go up there," he continued, his voice firm with determination. The others nodded in agreement, their eyes reflecting the gravity of the situation.

The Ghostbusters' Doom Buggies glided into the attic, the cobweb-covered space a stark contrast to the grandeur of the ballroom. The room was a cluttered mess of forgotten relics and haunting mementoes, each object seemingly imbued with a story of love gone wrong. The wedding portraits lining the walls drew their attention immediately, the bride's serene smile a stark contrast to the horrors they had encountered so far. Yet, as they watched in morbid fascination, the grooms' heads began to vanish in a gruesome dance of shadow and sound, replaced by the grim thud of a hatchet. The air grew colder, the whispers more insistent, and the malevolence grew palpable. Then, in a corner shrouded in darkness, the bride herself materialized, floating in a tattered wedding dress. Her eyes, once filled with love, now gleamed with madness as she recited her twisted vows, the spectral weapon in her hand raising high. "We'll live happily ever after," she shrieked, the hatchet poised to strike. The Ghostbusters knew that the time for sightseeing had ended; it was time to bring peace to the tortured souls of the Haunted Mansion.

Egon and Ray huddled together, their eyes fixated on the vengeful bride. "Egon, who do you think she was?" Ray whispered, his voice tinged with fear and curiosity. Egon, his PKE meter still beeping erratically, took a moment to consider the question. "Based on the intensity of the negative energy here, she must have been someone significant to the mansion's history," he replied, his gaze never leaving the ghostly figure. "Possibly the original owner's daughter, scorned on her wedding day. The power she wields suggests a deep anger and betrayal that's been festering for centuries." The air grew colder as the bride's spectral form grew more substantial, the hatred in her eyes burning into their very souls. The other Ghostbusters tightened their grips on their proton packs, ready to stand by their comrades as they faced the most dangerous part of their mission. The whispers grew to a crescendo, the room pulsing with the energy of the trapped spirits eager to be set free. The battle for the Haunted Mansion had just begun, and the fate of the 999 souls hung in the balance.

Constance Hatchaway, the bride whose tale was one of greed and madness, grew more substantial with each passing moment. Her eyes gleamed with a malicious intent as she recounted her macabre history, her voice echoing through the dusty attic. "Welcome to my bridal suite," she cackled, gesturing to the cluttered space around her. The Ghostbusters, now fully aware of the gravity of the situation, took a step closer to each other, their proton packs humming with readiness. "You know," Venkman quipped, trying to break the tension, "it's not every day you get invited to a wedding where the bride has a better head-count than the guests." The room grew colder, and the whispers grew to a fever pitch as Constance's eyes narrowed. "You think this is a jest?" she snarled, the hatchet in her hand seemingly growing larger. "This is my sanctuary, my trophy room!" With a ghostly flourish, she raised the axe, ready to add more heads to her grisly collection. The Ghostbusters knew they had to act fast, before the spirit's rage consumed them all.

"Let's not make this a permanent engagement," Venkman quipped, as the Ghostbusters flipped open their proton packs. The room erupted in a symphony of whirring and beeping as the four men steadied their weapons, aiming at the furious bride. "Now, let's show her what we're made of," Winston murmured, his voice a low rumble of determination.

"Fire at will!" Egon called out, and the room was bathed in a cacophony of spectral light as the proton streams shot forth, weaving a dance of containment around Constance Hatchaway.

With Constance Hatchaway safely contained, the Ghostbusters let out a collective sigh of relief, their proton streams dissipating into the cold attic air. The room grew quieter as the whispers of the trapped spirits faded away, the only sound now the distant wail of the wind outside. They made their way to the Doom Buggies, which had come to a halt at the attic's exit, the ground floor calling them back to the land of the living. The caretaker, his face a mask of fear, watched them with wide eyes as they approached, his trembling dog at his side. The sight of the ghostly band, the whimsical ghosts playing their jovial tune, and the macabre tea party scene outside the window did little to ease his terror. The Ghostbusters nodded in his direction, acknowledging his plight, but their mission was not yet complete. They descended the hill, the Doom Buggies carrying them through the graveyard, the air growing colder with each passing moment. The spectral minstrels' music grew louder as they approached, the haunting melody of "Grim Grinning Ghosts" filling the air once more. The Ghostbusters' eyes scanned the scene before them, taking in the whimsical horror of the phantoms enjoying their unearthly revelry. The hearse stuck in the mud, the undead partygoers, and the bizarre quartet of singers all added to the otherworldly tapestry that was the Haunted Mansion. They knew that while these spirits were eerie, they were not the malicious force they sought.

The Ghost Host is heard once again. "Ah, there you are! And just in time… there’s a little matter I forgot to mention — beware of hitchhiking ghosts!"

The Ghostbusters' Doom Buggies rumbled through the shadowy graveyard, the cobblestone path leading them to the three large mirrors that stood sentinel beside the mansion's façade. As they approached, the reflection in the first mirror revealed an unexpected addition to their party—a dapper specter with a top hat and monocle, grinning mischievously. "Phineas," Egon murmured, recognizing the ghostly figure known as The Traveler. In the second mirror, a skeletal figure clung to the back of their cart, his rattling bones a silent greeting. "Ezra," Ray whispered, his eyes widening with excitement. And in the third, a ghostly convict with a burlap sack over his head, Gus, was now a part of their convoy.

"They have selected you to fill our quota, and they’ll haunt you until you return!"

The Ghost Host raises the safety bar. "Now I will raise the safety bar, and a ghost will follow you home!"

The Ghostbusters' hearts raced as they felt the icy grip of the hitchhiking ghosts latch onto their Doom Buggies. The Traveler in the top hat gave a courteous tip of his hat, his grin growing wider in the mirror. The skeletal Ezra waved a bony hand, and the convict, Gus, let out a muffled chuckle from within his sack. "Well, this wasn't exactly in the job description," Venkman quipped, trying to maintain his composure. The Ghostbusters' carts lurched forward, the spirits' laughter echoing through the night as they approached the mansion's entrance. They knew that their job wasn't done yet.

[yandere-sins]

The Orcas' Tale - Chapter II

Right choice, baby! And we get some alone and exploration time with Krill, isn't that lovely? Hope you guys will enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it ♥ Krill's reference is getting drawn up just as I post this chapter, so it's double as exciting for me to see my descriptions come to life!

Fandom: Original Content   Pairings: Yandere!Orca Mermen x GN!Reader   Warnings: Yandere, Monsters, Manhandling, Threats, Dub-consensual touches, Animalistic behavior, Mention of claws/sharp teeth, Hinting at death, Long post

"Fine, then…" 

Taking a deep breath, you looked between the three expectant pairs of eyes before locking onto Krill's. None of them created a feeling of safety, but of all of them, Krill was the one you had interacted with the most. Gulping, you nodded at him, not needing to speak his name out loud before a smug grin parted his lips, showcasing the rows of sharp teeth behind them. 

"Everyone else, out," he ordered, his voice an assertive command as he lifted his body further out of the water, slowly clawing his way over to you. Lyr let out the longest, most disappointed sigh you had ever heard someone make, its high tone reminding you of the sharp whistle of a teapot. Still, he slipped into the pool with a taunting, "I've got something better to do anyway."

Nerrocan said nothing. When you pried your eyes from Krill's, you saw his upper body slumping, but the next second he jumped into the pool head-first and was gone. You had no idea if he was disappointed or relieved as he made his exit as fast as possible. And yet, you wished he would have stayed for some reason. Maybe just so you wouldn't have to face this giant predator, stalking towards you on his hands and arms, alone. Have someone be the voice of reason since the differences between you two were just too big to find common ground. 

With a surprised squeak, you were ambushed by Krill, his arms wrapping around you before he turned you both around, squeezing and pressing you against his chest. With a loud "Uff!" you fell to your butt, only to realize the ground you were sitting on was wet and slick, making you shoot out your hands to find hold. However, it wasn't ground you were sitting on. It was a body. 

It explained the weird sensation and friction against your wet suit, and you were always on the brink of slipping off as you realized in horror that Krill had pulled you on top of him while lying under you. A throaty laugh escaped the merman as he grabbed you by the forearms, having watched your struggles for a bit before steading you on top of him and placing your hands on his pecs. You bit your own lip as a moment of curiosity overcame you, seeing the sheer difference in size; the sensation of your teeth against your lips tearing you out of it. 

You wanted to pull your hands away, but all you could do was release a gasp as Krill pressed his claws to your skin, a quiet warning. Finally, you looked up, puncturing red orbs watching your every move with a drilling intensity. Not even the blue light could make his eyes any less piercing and brilliant, almost as if they were made from rubies. 

"Relax," he purred, the sound rumbling through his whole body and transferring onto yours. It didn't help you calm down, but you forced yourself to listen and focus, not letting the surprise and panic overtake you and upset him. Krill watched as you straightened your back, pulling your legs a bit higher so you'd find some hold on his massive body, your toes barely able to touch the ground when fully stretched anyway. You felt like a child on top of a way too big horse, legs barely able to go around his midriff, but the chortles and chuckles coming from him seemed to indicate Krill didn't mind as you tried to get more comfortable.

Sensing your newly acquired balance, he dropped his hands from your arms, one to capture your wrist, lifting it up so he could see. Krill had settled on what you assumed before was a bed, on top of the soft seal fur, slightly leaning against the back wall. A look over your shoulder revealed that his tail fin was still splashing in the pool, confirming your assumption that there wouldn't be enough space for their whole bodies inside this cave.

Flicking your wrist back and forth between his thumb and pointer, Krill hummed thoughtfully—a sound you'd come to hear more often as he explored onwards. First, his hands went to your legs, wet palms, webbing, and claws driving over your wetsuit, the fabric getting stuck on the gold rings he wore, briefly squeezing your thighs before he focused his attention on your right foot, scooping it up in his palm and demanding it closer to his face so he could watch you wiggle your toes. With bated breath, you put on the greatest show for him, making all five of your toes rise simultaneously and in turns as best as you could. Your effort paid off as Krill chuckled again, helping you back into your position on top of him by placing your foot where you had settled it before.

"You're really freakin' soft," he mumbled under his breath as his hands wrapped around your waist, squeezing the air out of your lungs but never pressing longer than necessary. It made you realize that he wasn't out to hurt you. In fact, he might actually be as curious about you as you were about him. "I noticed it before, but that's just…"

The feeling of his claws softly digging into your back made you arch. The tight muscles beneath you rubbed against your privates, the wet suit not giving as much coverage as you would have liked at that moment. Involuntarily, you let out a gasp, immediately burning up from embarrassment and averting your eyes while Krill's inquisitive hands drove beneath your arms, wrapping around your chest. He probed at your joints, pushing your shoulders back, your soft skin so very different from the hard surface his body created. You wondered if someone more built and muscular than you could even come close to the firmness of Krill. Inhaling deeply, you dared to look up at him again, noticing how his eyes shot up to meet yours, his grin widening as he pulled you a bit higher on top of his chest. "What about you? Aren't you curious?"

You gulped. 

Yes, you were terribly curious about these creatures. No, you couldn't let this get the best of you. But, God. You wanted to learn more about them. Everything you could find, you wanted to know, preserving your knowledge in a thorough report forever. These creatures were dangerous and too sentient while also harboring animalistic traits to be comfortable with. But so were countless other creatures on this planet. And you just had a chance to research them thoroughly. 

"Can I?" you asked, holding your breath as you wondered if you were testing your luck. This may have been a test. Maybe Krill would refuse, leading you on because he could tell your curiosity from the sparkle in your eyes. "Be my guest," he suddenly interrupted your thoughts, wrapping his palms around your arms to guide them forward. You were back to touching him, your hand barely enough to capture any part of him, but it guided your attention to really look at what you were dealing with. 

His muscles should not have awed you as much as they did, looking almost the exact same as a human bodybuilder's who was dehydrated before a show. You weren't sure if he could even dehydrate as a mermaid, but since his skin was so taut, maybe he merely lacked fat in these regions. However, what made you wonder the most was the jewelry he wore. At least they looked like jewelry.

You leaned forward, one of his hands instinctively reaching up, supporting your lower body as you went for the sharp teeth dangling from a leathery necklace. "Are those… sharks?" you asked absentmindedly, knowing the answer without even needing one from him. "Yup!" Krill replied, pride swinging in his voice as he lifted one up in his hand as well. "One for every bastard I killed."

You hummed in acknowledgment, aware that real orcas and sharks didn't get along well, either. Still, with the words of the voice you heard before nagging in the back of your mind, another question arose. "Are they real sharks, or are they…" Swallowing the rest of the sentence, you let go of the tooth, gesturing at Krill instead. 

"Oh, they're like me, alright."

He immediately understood your question, grinning from ear to ear as your eyes widened. You took in the size of the teeth dangling from his neck again and realized that these shark mermaids must have been giant as well. "Isn't it dangerous?" you whispered, fear crawling through your bones again, making your body prickle. However, instead of an answer, Krill suddenly picked you up, lifting you into the air as he twisted his body to the left side, placing you next to him and propping his head on his hand.

"Hm, for you? Maybe. Us? Not so much. You have an alright head on your shoulders. You should know who wins these kinds of fights."

Tapping his pointer finger claw to your forehead, you instinctively closed your eyes, only for him to chuckle at your reaction. "Orcas," you guessed, knowing very well that the real animals put up a good fight, but a shark had no chance against a group of orcas.

"Clever," Krill chuckled, the arm he used to hold himself up wrapping around you from behind, pulling you closer while he used his free right arm to direct your hand back to his body. Forcing your palm to smooth over his tail, you could have almost mistaken him enjoying your exploration more than even you did, but you wouldn't wait for him to ask again to take advantage. Kneeling, you were high enough to look over him, giving you the advantage of height to see. The patterns on his body were remarkably close to an orca, and you realized that until now, you still somewhat had doubts about their heritage. Doubts that were slowly dissolving.

Scars littered his skin, paling the black ever so often. Scars that were long and must have been deep to remain on his otherwise taut and strong body. You could only guess his age, but you didn't think Krill was too old to heal from wounds, so these must have been from fights, the marks looking like scratches that gave away who he must have fought with. The space between his hips and tail was covered by a leathery, brown belt, the fabric wrapping around him completely. There was even a small sachet dangling from it, and what surprised you more: a dagger. Sheathed in the same leather, the silver metal grip still had a remarkable resemblance to a human sword, but it was nowhere near your hand size. An authentic mermaid relict and you were dying of curiosity from it. However, you doubted Krill would give it to you, given the questionable captivity you were in. You were almost too scared to ask him, but the question resolved in a matter of seconds.

"Not there," Krill snapped suddenly as you lowered your hand to the top of his tail, on the inside between his human body and the fish one. 

"Sorry!" you squeaked, taken aback by the sudden refusal and jumping away with your hands raised defensively. Krill grumbled a little, then suddenly decided to roll over onto his stomach. You got to your feet just in time to not be caught underneath his body, and Krill let out a satisfied sigh as he laid flatly on top of the ledge. But when you looked up at him, his head resting on his arms, you were met with his gaze, as intense and burning as ever. 

"Continue," he ordered, fortifying your belief he might actually be enjoying this. You gulped, now feeling a bit more hesitant after the sudden outburst just now. Being unable to talk about the dagger you saw was disappointing, but you decided to stay on his good graces for now. 

Stepping closer, the first thing that caught your attention came as a surprise. "A dorsal fin," you muttered, looking at the triangle on top of his fish half. You hadn't noticed it before, but you realized it must have been uncomfortable to lay on it. Even so, Krill didn't complain, nor did he when you placed your hands on it, even squeezing tentatively into the tissue, realizing it was almost the same as the ones you had studied before. That, admittedly, did get you a bit excited. 

"Sorry," you whispered again as Krill's tail flinched from your touch, and he grumbled a little. But to your surprise, you found his eyes close as you searched for his face. It was both honorable that he seemed to be relaxing, as well as a bit offensive. You posed no threat to him. He had no reason to watch you. Leaving his dorsal fin, you continued upwards, your gentle touch tracing up the spine of his tail to where it connected to his upper body. You were almost scared to press, but you did so anyway, finding his tail to be a bit more tender than his human parts. Unfortunately, you couldn't feel his spine beneath it. But you found something else that piqued your interest.

"Are those from sharks, too?" you asked, tracing the scars on his body with your fingers. 

"Sharks and others. I don't keep count of what bit and scratched me, just of the things I killed for trying."

"So there are many different species of your kind down here, huh?"

"Guess so. Too many to count or even remember. All that matters is protecting the pod and making sure we have enough to eat. Oh, and having fun while at it, of course."

You could hear the grin on his face as he added the last sentence. The cruelty of orcas was not something you were unaware of. Apparently, this merfolk had the same definition of "fun" as their animal counterparts. It wasn't a surprise, but somehow it felt like a disappointment as you had credited them for being better than that. Scary, nonetheless. 

"Oh, but this one-" Reaching his hand back, Krill found yours, guiding it to a big scratch on his back, just above his tail. "-Mom was so angry when I got this one. I went out on my own to hunt for food for her since she was pregnant with Lyr. It was the first time I hunted alone, and I got ambushed by sharks. One of them got me good. They wanted my head just because they hate us."

Rightfully so, you thought but kept it to yourself. Given how Krill had admitted to being just as cruel as other orcas, you could only imagine the severity of hate between these two species. Krill raised his body briefly, revealing that the scar wrapped around to the front.

"Somehow, Mom must have realized where I was, and she came barging in with all the others to save me. But I will never forget the scolding I received while I got treated for my injuries. My aunts kept telling her to calm down because she was pregnant and I was in pain, but she shut them all down. She's the leader; her word goes above everyone else. And now, well... I blame that day for Lyr not being right in his head."

There was no bite to his words, only fond memories and a chuckle at the end about the joke he made. "Haven't talked about that in a while," he noted after a moment of silence. His eyes opened, but he stared off into the distance, unfocused. "I wonder if it's my fault…"

"What is? What do you mean Lyr's not right in his head?" The questions spilled out before you could stop yourself. Curiosity would kill you one day, but you couldn't help it. You had long settled by his side, innocently listening to his words and, unbeknownst to you, relaxed while Krill spoke, his voice even and melodic, and the conversation comfortable. But when he curled his body so he could look at you, the red of his eyes made you tense up immediately, never letting you forget that you were in no position to ask your questions.

Krill eyed you, perhaps suspiciously for the first time. As if he was wondering whether the information he could tell would give you a chance to hurt him. Him or anyone else. However, you weren't a threat, and you lowered your eyes apologetically for daring to overstep. 

But to your surprise, he only ever reached out, pulling you from your place next to his tail forward until he could wrap the arm around you, forcing you to sit right next to his head. Unexpectedly, he collected your legs before heaving his head on top of them, resting the side of his face on you. He was heavier than anyone before who used you as a lap pillow, that much was sure, but since you could lean into his arms around you, it wasn't as uncomfortable as you feared. 

His hair was shorter than Nerrocan's, short in the front, longer in the back, like a mullet. One side was cut down into a sidecut, and most of it was a dark white instead of Nerrocan's long, black hair. An odd choice for a hairstyle for such a fearsome creature you found, but it fit his daring attitude. He certainly had the aura of a leader, which made more sense now that you knew about his mother. And with him taking the time to talk to you and make deals, never showing fear or hesitations in this kind of situation, he definitely acted that way. You couldn't help but play with the strands, soft and wet from the water, shining black on top.

Scanning his features, an odd thought crossed your mind. Krill was quite handsome. 

You had felt the same when you looked at Nerrocan, both embodying beauty standards in different ways. At least until the fish parts. Strangely, you didn't have this feeling for Lyr, though you had to admit you didn't really have the time to look at him either. Combing your fingers through his hair, you felt emboldened by having the apparent trust of this creature, deciding to prod a little more. 

"Why did you say that about Lyr?" you whispered softly, not wanting to upset the giant in your lap. Krill's eyes fluttered open, his gaze shifting briefly to you before he let out a deep sigh, the sound echoing through the cave. 

"Something happened to him. He… changed. Refused to hunt for the pod one day, despite being one of the best, and never went back to it. He ignores Mom and orders from me or her, and does whatever he wants instead. Sometimes he disappears for days before returning like nothing happened, with a few fresh scars and a grin on his face as if he's going mad. Also, he lost a lot of weight. Maybe he's sick? His fin collapsed, and we could help him if he'd let us, but he's stubborn, that prick."

Letting out another frustrated puff, the gills on his neck flaring, Krill lifted his head before plunging it face down into your lap, creating friction with your wetsuit. If you didn't know better, you'd say he liked the sensation against his skin, but he stopped before long, placing his head sidewards and looking up at you from the corner of his eye.

"Lyr has problems, and Nerrocan has ideas. I know they are their own orcas, but they could come to me, and we'd talk about whatever is going on. I taught them everything, you know? I've been with them since they were wee calves. You'd think that would mean something in this family."

With that, Krill lifted himself upwards, supporting himself on his arms and looking down at you, his brows furrowing as the mood turned serious. "Don't tell them what I said, understood? I shouldn't have said anything, but you're… easy… to talk to. You wouldn't dare to go against me—we both know that."

Slowly, Krill moved backwards, his body sinking back into the pool. "Besides, you owe me."

"Do I?" you questioned, his choice of words ticking you off. One second, it felt like you were building a connection between you two; the next, he pushed you away. Verbally and with physical distance. You could see the relief on his expression as he sank into the water, making you realize that a prolonged stay out of it was probably not comfortable. But then, his eyes snapped open, an authoritarian air emitting from the previously gentle giant in your lap. 

"Of course you do. You would have died up there, and you know it. I rescued you, opened my home to you, and made sure you wouldn't be killed by the others in my pod. Our females would not have taken kindly to you had they found you first."

"Someone would have come for me, I know it! I didn't have to rely on you–"

"Oh, please," he snorted, running a wet hand through his hair, moisturizing his scalp and face. "You were lost out there. The sounds of that metal thing had long disappeared from the waters, and with your flimsy… legs, they're called, right? You wouldn't have come far on your own. You do owe me, and the same for the others who kept you a secret from the rest of the pod. You should be a bit more grateful."

"Excuse me–!" you tried to argue when he suddenly snapped his teeth at you, making you flinch away. 

"No more," he hissed. "They're coming back, and I don't want to hear a word of what we said. Just be grateful and return our kindness. Amuse us, or I don't see why we should keep you with us."

With almost no delay, the water parted on either side of Krill, revealing the familiar heads of your other two 'saviors'. Lyr perked up at the sight of you, and if he noticed your hesitations, he pretended not to see. You glanced back at Krill, who held your gaze with a commanding aura, and you didn't dare to say anything, even though you hated that you had to bend to Krill. You knew he was right, and the anxious part of your brain tended towards thankfulness for the orcas for saving you. But it still didn't feel right. It was a reminder that you weren't their equal and they had no respect for you. With your differences, you had doubts that they'd see you as anything but a lesser lifeform, given how they felt superior over you. And you knew that they were, even if you wanted to disagree with their views. 

"We're not sure, but the older females think you humans like to make yourself pretty, right? The pod's been collecting these, but we don't really have any use for them. Do you want them?" 

Lyr's voice caught you off-guard, and you flinched, causing Krill to let out a curt warning growl that didn't go unnoticed by the others. They didn't question their leader. Turning towards Lyr, you scanned over the things he held in his palm: an ivory comb, a small plastic bottle of hand sanitizer, and a delicate-looking tube of… lipstick? You didn't even want to think about how long these things had been in the water, all of them looking worn down, with the plastic bottle being the newest addition. You couldn't see yourself using any of these items besides the comb. Even if just to regain some sanity from the familiarity of combing through your hair. But sticking to it were algae, and the material looked crusty, like it had been down here for a while. Not very hygienic. 

"That isn't even close to what a human needs," Nerrocan suddenly spoke up. When he got out of the water, he didn't waste time presenting what he brought back, throwing a massive slab of meat in front of your feet. Not meat. Fish. And not just any fish, a gigantic one, the piece as big as your whole body. It lacked a head and fins, making it unrecognizable, but with the meat cut open, you could see the typical fish flesh. You were too scared to ask what it was as you realized you couldn't make it out on your own. Part of you wanted to think it would be edible, but a much more horrific thought crossed your mind. 

What if it was another mermaid?

Your stomach betrayed you with a growl, and your mind unwillingly drifted off to freshly made sushi, a luxury you were sure wouldn't be served down here. But could you bring yourself to actually eat whatever they were serving you? You glanced back at the comb and its sharp edges, the crusts on top of it. It might cut your scalp and infect it, too, if you weren't careful. But by the look Krill gave you, you knew you had to make a decision soon. He wanted to see your appreciation for their efforts, no matter how much this made you feel sick to the stomach. 

"What do you want?" Krill asked, voicing your racing thoughts in your head. Your eyes bounced from the strange food to the comb and back to Krill, everything screaming inside you to refuse either option and ask to be finally brought home after indulging him. But would that even work? Would they let you go this easily? As you thought about it, you were faced with three apparent choices.

[harleyxhoward]

Analyzing The Abilities of Characters From The Boys Pt. VI

🐍Zoe Neuman🐍

Zoe, growing up in both a multiethnic and affluent home, is both marginalized and privileged in a myriad of ways. Her ethnicity, along with her mother’s, is never acknowledged outright on the show. For all we know, the directors could have cast white actresses for the both of them and the core of my analysis would be null and void, but I believe the fact they aren’t white provides a certain layer of tragedy to Zoe’s character in particular.

Going off of personal experience in uppity East Coast spaces, Zoe’s presumably one of few ethnic children in her social circle. While she’s debatably white passing, this would undoubtedly have led to numerous instances of her facing prejudice and most likely teasing of various kinds.

This is where her unique ability of generating snake-like tentacles from her mouth presents itself. Her being injected as a preteen means her body analyzed her current surroundings and decided what she needed most at this stage in her life was some form of aggressive defense that could come from her mouth. This most likely resulted from her being mocked, teased, harassed, or discriminated against, and wishing there was a way her “sharp tongue” could actually cut them. Now with these serpents that expel themselves from her mouth, she’s capable of holding her own against anyone who wishes to insult or berate her.

Her being subjected to Red River felt like karmic irony, Victoria injecting her in adolescence* because she decided having any ability at all would be better than being powerless. I’ve mulled over this decision from Vicky, but ultimately settled on it being near sighted and power hungry on her end. She knew full well that Compound V resulted in the death of her own parents, and could very well have given Zoe a disastrous mutation, if not killing her in a long, drawn out body horror scenario. Even Stan Edgar was repulsed and horrified at the idea that Victoria would stoop so low as to inject Zoe with V, which put the gravity of the situation into perspective.

Vicky additionally knew that, while she was getting herself tangled up in Vought and Homelander, that her life was on the chopping block, and if she died, Samir wouldn’t be able to fend off Firecracker, let alone all of Vought’s forces. This would, assuming Homelander didn’t execute her daughter, land Zoe in the same place Vicky ended up after the death of her parents, which is exactly what happened.

While this seemed unfair at first, I saw it more so as a cautionary tale of what corruption does to a person. Vicky wasn’t satisfied with what she had, and strived for absolute power at the expense of her daughter’s well being. The shift from a loving mother willing to give her child the world to a power hungry tyrant injecting her daughter with a potentially lethal drug to turn her into a #girlboss didn’t happen randomly. I can imagine every thought that went through Vicky’s head as she decided to this to Zoe, especially explaining away the consequences as trivial costs to her daughter’s safety.

My response to that, aside from it not panning out how Victoria intended, is to look no farther than Kris Jenner with Kim Kardashian. In both mother-daughter duos a power/money hungry mother mutates/exposes her child all in the name of giving her a “better life” at the cost of robbing her of her agency and ultimately her humanity. Society blames Kim for perpetuating beauty standards, all of which were thrust upon her by a mother who just wanted a bigger mansion.

*The horror of Vicky’s decision stems mostly from the fact that the older you are, the worse the mortality rates/negative mutations are with V injections. Stan and Vicky already knew this, and it’s why people were contemplating whether Ashley would die at the end of S4 or not. Babies appear to be more malleable, and while some gain adverse mutations, they’re hardly ever lethal, and may even be tailored to Vought’s liking (so it seems).*

[dearestspirit]

a note heard in heaven - 06

mizu x fem!reader | au based on the film the handmaiden | word count: 11,078 | warnings: mdni. this series will contain sexual and dark themes, including: abuse, sex, sexual assault/harrasment, period typical misogyny, murder, allusions to suicide, and period typical stigmas against mental health.

series masterlist | previous part | next part

a/n: beginning note for context: most of this chapter is within the context of the reader going through memories of their childhood, meeting mizu, and previous events of the story that happened with mizu, but moreso from the reader's perspective. also, it has the brunt of the tagged topics (abuse, suicide) but i tried my best at writing things with only as much detail as i thought they needed to have to advance the plot. take care and enjoy!

You’ve lived in this manor for a long time. From crying child to complacent adult, most of your memories are within the walls of the estate. Purgatorial fog covered the recollections of your haunted youth– knowing you were raised purely to be what you are now. A well; to be dipped into, whether it be for money or pleasure. To receive nothing in return. Nothing good, at least. No matter how far you go from that place, you’ll still flinch when you think of it. It’s why, even in the back of the carriage as you and Taigen are leaving the asylum, you grow distant. Strings of what used to be lingering fuzzily in your mind, as if the fear wants to eat away at you.

Just like it did when you were a child.

In that same dreary library, attending your reading lessons even then, that’s where horror first began its feast with you. It’s where you’d first hear the words ‘bitch’ from your eventual fiance. Where he had first met your skin with bruising metal beads. Your hands, your knuckles. They had stayed painfully red for weeks. He’d tell you to remember it. He’d tie the metal beads to the obi around your waist. Really burn it into your mind for any time after that you wanted to act out. What part of you had fear gulped into its belly then? And what part did it chew on when you were given your own bedroom, away from your dear aunt?

Madam Kaji had told you a tall tale that night. Your new room suffocated in deep shadows, curtains drawn to dim the glow of the moonlight. You remember begging her to light a candle in your room. Desperately, because while you knew you couldn’t ask for two, you might have a chance at one. Just one light to protect you. Any sense of security or safety in this place was scarce– so much so that you weren’t even surprised when the older woman sneered down at you, refusing. That doll you owned– the one you seemingly carried with you everywhere– was the only semblance of warmth you ever felt here. She crouched down, level with your eyesight. Pointing her lantern towards the door, she spoke in a hushed tone, telling you all about the ogre who’d burst into your room if it heard you scream or cry. How it’d smother you until you could no longer manage to make even a whisper of a sound. You thought you heard the now familiar sound of a stomach growling.

Until your aunt came through that very door, spooking both you and Madam Kaji.

She had tsked, shaking her head. “Don’t be scaring little ones like that.”

Her pointed glare towards the elder woman was obvious as she used her own candle to light your lamp, which had eased your fears at least a little. You remember her to have always been that kind. Always looking out for you, in a world where nobody else was. The first person to make you feel like maybe you did belong. That despite whatever horrific paths you’d find yourself on, you weren’t entirely alone. But those heartfelt moments grew to be few and far between through the interference of your eventual fiance. Short lived too, washing down the drain alongside what fragments of faith you had left. That man had doled out cruelty and punishments equally between you and your aunt, snuffing out any sense of joy in your lives.

You had learned a lot from the woman, regardless.

Like when she told you to hold out your hands, dropping a photo of your mother into your outstretched palms. Did you know, decades later, you’d be asking the same question she had?

“And me? Everybody says I don’t compare to my big sister.” She spoke with her head turned, displaying her side profile.

You must’ve spent hours looking at that picture after that. You never knew her, the only testament to her as a person being the stories passed down from your aunt. Tracing a finger down the slope of her nose, then your own. Perhaps you’d never compare, either. Not like it mattered, when every step of your life was decided for you. You wouldn’t have to compare, you would just have to exist. No desires, no grudges. No mind to dwell on the truth of your life. Just pieces of a blank slate hastily kept together by the desperation of the people around you greedily trying to take your wealth.

Despite any punishment, you’d still act out any way you could. You’d giggle and point at the dirty words and pictures in those books you were forced to read during your lessons. When your aunt would point and verbalize the parts of the human body across from your eventual fiance, you were to repeat them. You’d chuckle as she’d point out the lower areas– noticing the displeasure on the man’s face. He’d descend upon you and your aunt quickly, leaving you teary eyed and frowning.

It wasn’t long after that that you found out what a mental hospital was. The threats to send you away to one of them were frequent, becoming a little more real each time you acted out. You had been told that this sort of hysteria was typical in the women of your family– he had side-eyed your aunt at that particular comment– and that it’d do you good to get your lunacy treated. That they’d bury you into the depths of cold soil. Cover it up until you ‘improved’, after which you’d become a fucking dog to them. Leashed. Detailing the frightening ways these hospitals would treat their patients, it made your aunt start running. She had made a desperate attempt to get out of the library before that lever was pulled and the gate had shut in her face, much like it did to Mizu when she first tried to get in.

You wished you were brave enough to try.

You watched your aunt slowly grow sicker. Older now, and able to reminisce, you now knew the cause of that sickness. Those fucking readings he’d make her do during his bidding sessions. To an audience of men, delighting in a well put together woman voicing off lewd words. When he’d make her read the story of women getting defiled, smoking men gathered on the steps to view her. They’d have their own cushions and tables, treated with the highest regard to further his own influence among these sadistic individuals. At the end of it all one man would go home with the crass material, and your fiance would be even richer. You’d watch with a heavy heart from the doorway of the library as she finished up, dabbing at her cheeks with a folded handkerchief. That smile she gave to you– deeper with pity and sympathy than you could describe at the time.

When she’s found dead the next day, you think she took with you the last scrap of hope you had left. Her body swayed from the branch of that cherry tree outside your window. A servant had swiftly carried you away, trying to tear your eyes away from the gruesome scene.

You visited that tree often. Thinking of your aunt protecting you, as best she could, from the harsh realities of the world you lived in. Something about you swears those flowers bloomed even more beautifully– their hue a vibrant pink, fragrant and sweet. Your aunt’s soul in a rush of floral glory. Arms above your head, you’d let yourself feel the breeze and swing just like she did.

What acts of defiance did you have left in you?

Exhaustion buckled you into silent submission.

The estate grew with you, over time. Adulthood made little change in you, but the manor morphed beyond itself. Renovations to the library changed its appearance, now seeming more opulent. Pools of clear water embedded in the tatami floor, bonsai trees, and sections of pure white sand adorned with rocks adding a scenic flair to the room. Despite all the change, you were still just as terrified of the library as you used to be. The death of your aunt was nothing to your now fiance– the ‘proposal’, if you could call it that, happened shortly after– his only concern was those books of his. Eventually, he had replaced your aunt with… you.

In your heart, you know that your aunt’s most profound regret was that she could not save you from him.

Candlelight lit the room, your hushed voice rolling through like a fog. Crude details of sex falling on perverted ears. Bondage, whips. The faces of your listeners staring into you, hanging onto every syllable you speak. Their legs begin to tremble the more you delve into the story, the peak imminent. A new man you’ve never seen before sits proudly. Not as jittery or obvious as the others, though his eyes are just as intense.

The Count. You know him now. His ulterior motives, too. In your memories, that’s apparent in hindsight. The intense look in his eye is not that of perversion, but rather, trickery.

Your performance continued that night. Men had begun to fan themselves, fidgeting. With the last word having been read, you watched your fiance stand, describing the origins of the book and how he’d gotten his hands on it. Aristocratic nonsense that’d bore you to death. The Count had chimed in to the conversation, striking a nerve within your fiance as you see him light up at whatever he said. Mentioning an author by name, you assume. The book is flipped around to the audience to show the one problem.

An illustration, torn from its place. Only the hint of it remains in the ripped edge still holding onto its bindings.

“Before the bidding starts,” His hand waves over to you, gesturing for everyone to gaze your way. “We’ll have a demonstration.”

You’d be disrobed of the extravagant kimono you had on to reveal a lighter one underneath. With the pulling of a few levers, a wooden mannequin with maneuverable limbs would be lowered from the ceiling, coming to rest in front of you. Removing the pins from your hair as you let it down, you’d have to straddle the puppet’s legs, your own obi wrapped around its waist. You’d be bound to it, this way. An unfortunately visceral feeling of eyes crawling on whatever inch of skin they could see made your mouth dry, you remember. Your fiance would set up all the ropes on the model, it eventually coming to be hoisted in the air, you still secured in its lap. Below you, you could faintly make out the image of the many men leaning forward in their seats, as if to study your form. Leaning backwards to imitate the position you’d read out earlier, you could feel your stomach begin to turn. Your mind had grown fuzzy after that, barely perceiving the suggestive speech going on about you.

Your next clear memory of that night was of you sneaking your way through the manor. Many shortcuts were riddled throughout the strange architecture. Above the library was a particular wall. From your side, you were able to slide it aside and peer into the room below. Convenient, when you wanted to catch your fiance’s wrongdoings. Sat at one of the tables was The Count, carefully replicating an illustration from a book. A forgery. Yet their discussion landed at the one topic you expected; women, and particularly which women The Count figured he could successfully lay with during his time at the manor.

He clicked his tongue. “There is… only one who would refuse me here.”

“Madam Kaji?” Your fiance raised a brow at that.

“Your former wife who you still share a bed with?” The Count scoffed. “She’d come to my door in an instant if I showed her the right attention.”

“Then who?”

“The lady…” At his words, you peered through the slots in the wall as best you could. Anticipating his next sentence with great anxiety. “She didn’t look away when she saw me. Even if I were to meet her tonight… I couldn’t. Her body is cold, and her eyes… they have nothing. I’m certain her soul is dead inside. Go easy on her.”

You had gulped at that, slumping back a bit as the two began smoking together. At that time, your fiance had just laughed at the implications of The Count’s statement.

You found out soon after that that The Count had offered himself up to give you painting lessons; something he claimed was expected of all the ladies he met in England, where he had studied. Your fiance had insisted on the two of you sharing a meal with him. A gesture of kindness he bestowed only to those like-minded to him. You were never very lucky in receiving any sort of grace from him. When he was ushered away by a servant to take care of some important matter, The Count leaned on his elbows towards you.

“He will only be gone for a little while,” He said, eyes fixed on you despite their brief glance to where your fiance had run off to. “There’s something I’ve come to discuss with you about your future. You’ll see me waiting by the stone lamp at nightfall.”

For some reason, you had decided just this once to see. Your life had been vapid and essentially pointless after your aunt had passed– your handmaidens were not kind to you, Madam Kaji was too busy to entirely get along with you, and your fiance… well, you didn’t want him to like you to begin with. It didn’t surprise you that, after going so long without it, the tiniest glimmer of hope made your chest feel like it was bursting as you waited for midnight to come. You had sent your handmaiden away, off to some other wing of the estate so she wouldn’t be privy to whatever The Count wanted to tell you. After you heard her footsteps depart, you took a peek past the curtain of your window.

And there he stood, cigarette lit in his hands gazing back up at you. Eventually he had sauntered off out of your eyesight, but you could guess where he was going. Only minutes later was there a knock at your door.

“I’m not looking forward to having rumors spread about the two of us,” You spoke through the door, guarded. Your doll sat comfortably in your arms. “What do you want?”

“Look, it was really hard getting here,” He sneered. “I don’t need any of your princess sass. I’m the son of a farmhand, and I’ve spent a long time trying to get the skills to meet you. Bookmaking, forgeries. I came here to attract you, get rid of you, and take your money, but…”

He briefly trailed off, leaving you to wonder why. He cleared his throat after some contemplation, continuing.

“I don’t think I’m the type who would be able to seduce you, to put it in plain terms.”

You had snorted at that, opening the door. “You’d be right.”

The man had then allowed himself into your room. “So, I’ve thought of a new deal. In exchange for about,” He makes a motion with his hand to imply he’s thinking. “Half of your fortune, it can be a rescue operation. We get married, I take you far away, we split the money.”

“That’s not going to work.”

“So you rather marry that old pervert and stay here than even try?” He asked.

“I’m not going to marry anyone.” You seethed, backing away from him as you let your words sink in.

“And what of your wealth if you simply die like that? It’ll all go to him and he’ll just repeat the process from the beginning.” While he makes a good point, you can’t shake the years of trained fear of your fiance.

“He’ll… he’ll follow us,” You’ve started to quiver, securing your arms tighter around your doll. “The basement. He’ll put us in the basement.”

“What?”

You take a deep breath, eyes becoming distant. “After my aunt passed, I read in a book that there are certain things that happen to the body after being hanged. However, when I saw her body… none of the signs were there. When I asked my fiance about it, he asked if I wanted to go somewhere nice. He pulled up some of the tatami mats from the floor, leading me down a staircase.”

Even now, you could never forget the chill that seeped through your sock clad feet descending those stairs. How his words sunk in, that what had happened to your aunt was a consequence. A punishment for an attempted escape. The purpose of this room became more than clear to you; the variety of strange tools and objects. A lot of things that your mind couldn’t parse at the time. Your head throbbed at the lack of light, the underground room feeling like it was closing in on you.

A shiver courses through you. “I will never go back there again.”

The Count nods after hearing you recount your experience, exhaling noisily and rubbing his chin. “This,” He held up a small vial of an unknown liquid. “Is opium. If he ever gets a hold of you again, you can drink all of it and be dead within minutes.”

In your panic addled state, you grabbed for it eagerly. Before you could get a hold of it, he had swiped it out of reach.

“Not yet. It’ll be a wedding gift,” He huffs, shaking his head. “Quite a grim one, at that…”

Your annoyance was clear as you rolled your eyes, willing the prick of tears to go away. In that moment you knew you had to try. If your aunt could not save you, then you would save yourself.

“Then…” You wandered over to the windowsill, taking a seat on it. “Bring someone to be my handmaiden. We can send her to a madhouse under my name. I want… I want my name to be buried there. ‘I’ won’t exist after that.”

He agreed. Especially considering the plan to get rid of your current handmaiden would be to bed her. The repercussion of which would be Madam Kaji kicking her out, of course. With her commitment to routine and keeping everything in order, it’d be the very next day that your new handmaiden arrived.

Mizu.

Unbeknownst to most people– maybe your aunt or fiance had known, you weren’t sure– that spot on your door was a peephole, facing outwards into the handmaiden’s quarters. You watched Mizu fumble with her luggage, placing it away and out of sight. In a move that shocks you, she hesitantly slid the screen to your room over, peering inside. When you looked back, you saw how the lump of your blankets on the bed slightly resembles your figure. As if you were laying there, unaware of Mizu’s presence. Gently, you thud your doll against your door, spooking Mizu into shutting the door and scrambling into bed.

“Fuck.” You heard her whisper.

Your grin widens.

Mizu is exactly what you had asked for from Taigen; a foolish girl who wouldn’t know any better. But… isn’t that exactly what she thought of you, too? You knew it, by the way she looked at you with those sad eyes when you had screamed for your mother, faking a nightmare. A bit of a dirty trick to play on her first night, you admit. Even so, that didn’t stop you from being amused at the charade of it all. Taigen had suggested that you show off all your fancy belongings to her– every finely made kimono, the glamorous jewelry. Her awkwardness was more than obvious. The fact that she had never come face to face with such expansive amounts of wealth was clear every time her blue eyes widened or lit up at the various items you showed her. She… was endearing, actually.

So much so that when you found out about the other servants stealing her shoe, it genuinely enraged you. Something you hadn’t felt for a long time. Most of your emotions had boiled down to dull nothingness after years of complacency. You found little value in feeling anger, much less expressing it. With your servants lined up in front of you, you’re sure they too could sense the unease in the air. Arms crossed tightly, you stared them down.

“Which one of you took her shoe?”

At the far end, one of the servant girls is quick to bow on the ground, tears in her eyes. She must’ve known it was better for her to concede, confessing her guilt rather than letting the information reach Madam Kaji. You nodded, feeling at least a little relief she had done so.

“If she ever runs because of something any of you do to her, I will personally throw you out myself,” You sigh. “Fuck.”

You had some inkling of an idea back then, that your feelings for her were already… complicated. Those moments you had felt her eyes on you– piercing, with heavy lids, just watching you– you couldn’t suppress the thrill you felt. Taigen had told you a little bit about her. How she had grown up poor and mostly went back and forth between either the woman who took her in or that elderly man she trained under for some time. You knew her to be strong, capable. Though, she was a bit like you, wasn’t she? Not very well acquainted with the art of social skills. She certainly didn’t know much about the way of nobles like you, so her suspecting you as being just as conniving as her was unlikely. You had never felt close to someone like this, at least not someone your own age. Other handmaidens would often cower before you, not because you had specifically done anything to them, but because of Madam Kaji’s strict standards. Mizu, though? She filled your time with genuine conversation and laughter. Maybe not the most smiles because she wasn’t exactly one to outwardly express herself, but that slight upturn of the edge of her lips– you could’ve kissed her the first time you saw it. Her entire face deserved the downpour of kisses you wished to give it. Forehead, eyebrows, the lids covering her striking eyes that didn’t scare you, cheeks, the tip of her nose often reddened by the cold rainy weather, lips, chin. You truly did think of her, late at night when your back would hit the cushioned softness of your mattress.

That bath didn’t help either. Absent-mindedly, you find your tongue running over the tooth she had smoothed down. Hoping to quell how much you missed her with whatever faint trace of metal that thimble had left behind. Hoping that, if your taste buds found that metallic tang, it could calm the way your heart pounded.

It came to be a fond memory of yours– how she had so gingerly taken your face in her hands. The pads of her fingers were calloused, rough on your own skin. You desperately wished there had been no thimble barring you from feeling her thumb trace across your teeth, your tongue. If she had asked you, you would’ve gladly closed your lips around her. Hers was a painless authority– your obedience to her was not beaten into you. You supposed… you just liked her. That notion of you being hers, and her being yours? A thread of a thought that you could barely unravel before you watch her eyes trail down your body. With how bright they are, it’s impossible to not notice the way her pupils dilate, especially when you see her throat bob as her eyesight aligns with your breasts. You had seen many, many men with wandering eyes. Impolite, sleazy gazes that made you squirm in discomfort. You wonder if her staring was a result of arousal, too? Mizu was unlike them, though. While her thoughts may have been impure, her hands stayed only where you asked them to. Never seeking out more than you wished to give. However, you craved for her to keep looking. There was almost a pained whimper from you as she peeled away, removing her thumb from your mouth. How easy would it be to grasp her wrist, drag her hand down your body until she was rolling her fingers over your most sensitive parts?

“Go ahead and finish washing.” You notice the way her voice had lowered, gotten huskier.

She sits with her back to the tub, arms crossing tensely. Behind her, you could make out the visible red tint speckled across the tops of her ears. To you, the silence is comfortable, but you’re sure that it’s agony to Mizu. Smiling, you hoist yourself to your knees, taking two movements to situate yourself behind her.

“Mizu?” Your voice is breathy, right next to her ear, that gets even redder.

“What?” She snaps at you a bit, but you pay it no mind.

“Do you want to come in, too?” If you didn’t feel it would push the limits, you would’ve planted a kiss right behind her ear.

Another on her neck below it. She’s frozen, not answering you while she’s deep in thought. Probably weighing her odds– would this be something you’d go running to Madam Kaji about if she said yes? You knew you wouldn’t, but you’re not sure how to assuage those doubts in her. Mizu turns to you, a smirk on her face that sends an arrow through your heart.

She leans in close, barely space between you two at this point. “Maybe next time, princess.”

The likelihood of you falling in love with her increased tenfold after that. Even as Taigen had told you to occupy all her time, to ensure that she thinks you’re falling in love with him at a snail’s pace. As if you’d fall in love with him at all, you wanted to scoff.

You couldn’t. You were on a nosedive, falling hard for the girl he had sent to be your servant. The one you were supposed to send away. Her presence now burnt into every joyous moment you could think of. Dinner, where Taigen had called you breathtakingly beautiful. A brief flash in your mind compared to how Mizu’s body had engulfed the rest of your memory. Dressing her, giving her those earrings to wear, having her look like a noble lady in front of you. Removing every garment one by one, too. Despite the glove in between, letting your hand follow the dips of her shoulder blades. Laughing with her after your painting lessons, or on that walk where she had cradled you so kindly. Having been deprived of true affection and feeling her palms against your cheeks as she talked you out of those bleak thoughts.

It was companionship.

When you thought of how this scheme was going, the way Mizu would never be yours if it came to fruition– you could barely fathom it. Finally, here is what you think you were made for. A woman who you would do anything to call your own, but with her came that cruel twist of fate that this would be it for you two. How hellish that you’d have to put up with Taigen’s grabby hands and crude remarks for the entirety of it, too?

That day it had rained, with the two of you back at the estate waiting for Mizu to return was one such occurrence. You had slapped his hand away from your arm, eyes going wide with annoyance.

“Ugh, you men are so simple.” You mumble.

“What?” Taigen snorts. “I’m just playing around. Your fiance’s making you read too many of those books, hm? I’m not after your body, only your money.”

He had pinched your cheek, your arm, and then your ass, which you fiercely swat away.

Mizu had gone stomping around the manor, you being unaware that she had seen Taigen so boldly touching you. You had seen her in the night, sitting straight up and sighing. Her anger was so freely expressed in those eyes of hers. When she looked Taigen’s way, her hatred of him was unmistakable.

At this point, yours probably was too.

Sitting on that rock in the forest, nearly in his lap, you had told him as much. He had insisted the two of you had to make the proposal believable. Mizu would have to see the two of you tangled together in order to truly think you had accepted. You had reluctantly agreed, though the nausea in your belly wasn’t soothed at all. He had made a comment to pretend he was that wooden mannequin, and he’d pretend you were another woman as well.

You didn’t want him to be the mannequin.

You wanted him to be Mizu.

Balanced in her lap, letting her cup your thighs in her hands. Fingers tracing upwards, creating a path of flames that licked deep into your bones. Her mouth on yours, frantic and frenzied with desire, the absolute need to be close to each other. You needed to be close to her because you loved her. In all your convoluted years of living, for once, laying with her, you had felt that first twinge of simultaneous fulfillment and heartbreak. Your heart, beating once, fed itself full on the fantasy of being together with Mizu. Beating once more, it collapsed when you heard her distressed cry for you, rooted to her spot in the forest as she saw you kissing Taigen.

With all the pain in her voice, the slight watery quality to her eyes, you could’ve never guessed that she too, was shattering.

A cool breeze wafted through the library, chilling your skin. You cleared your throat, watching all the men in attendance for tonight’s bidding settle into their spots. Taigen, of course, is there too. The story laid out in front of you made you pause, knowing its contents by the title alone after having practiced it for so long.

Depicted in the erotic tale was a relationship between two women. Describing how one of them was given a small box– four small silver bells contained within. A gift for her and her lover. As you read aloud, you notice the room growing dimmer. Regardless of the candlelight fading, you were able to continue. The two women would take two bells inside of them. Legs parted and meeting each other in the middle, the melodic notes would ring as they moved against each other. Tongue wetting your dry lips, you try to keep your focus on your speech. The illustration portrayed in the book below has you nearly tripping over your words, a momentary glimpse of it recalling Mizu to mind. To feel her, no bothersome fabric blocking you from her bare skin. To willingly allow yourself that vulnerability with her. Feeling her weight, her heat, the bumps of scars littered across her skin that you wanted to kiss, wanting to take away every ill thought she may have ever had. Feel the roughness of her hands finding every part of you with curiosity and desire, no trace of malice or greed.

Abruptly, applause rang out in the darkened room. You had barely even noticed that you finished reading.

Even dabbing at your heated skin with that folded handkerchief, you couldn’t shake those thoughts of Mizu away.

Your nerves had gone cold once darkness fully encompassed the estate. Were you even sure of how you got here? Mizu, hovering over you, eyes set on the rise and fall of your bare chest.

“If he sees you like this…” She’s mumbling, so rapidly you can barely make out what she said.

In seconds, she’s descended onto you, her tongue circling around your nipple. You can feel the way her hand slides to your side, nails dipping into your tender skin. A futile attempt for her to cling onto what little restraint she has left. You know she probably thinks of you as something dainty, easily broken if treated haphazardly. Bite. You wanted to tell her. Mark you so even when the two of you were no longer, you could trail over the scarred teeth marks. Bruise. Let you see the way her love erupts across you, let her pour every ounce of unabashed need into them. Rather, her lips close around you in a languid suck, dragging an open-mouthed gasp from your throat. On impulse, your fingers card their way through her hair, pulling while you try to hold onto the last shreds of your stability. You can feel her chest rumble against your abdomen right before she’s planting wet kisses against you. She travels up your body, following the natural contours of your shape until she reaches your chin. Pulling back, she looks down at you. Her eyes, somehow even brighter than the moonlight, cause your lips to part. Mizu’s beautiful. You could see her like this every night. Every hour, and still not tire of it.

Tears dot along your lower lids, partially out of pleasure as she teases her fingers around your nipple, but also out of an indescribable anguish. Mizu was not an easy woman to read. With you two playing the roles of blushing virgin and warm mentor, did this mean anything to her? Was it only because you asked her to show you how The Count would touch you, a thinly veiled attempt to seduce her? She handled you with such a sweet touch,it was hard to think that maybe it was nothing special to her.

“Will he be this gentle, too?” You asked, noticing the rasp in your own voice.

“How could he not?” Her lips are so close, tickling your jaw right below your ear. “He’ll do this, too…”

You’re lost in a heady daze of lust as you feel her fingers creep along your calf to reach the hem of your clothing. You’d let her tear it apart if it meant her touching you even a second sooner. She pauses, not moving further until you hurriedly nod, burying your face in her shoulder. The fabric of your robe slips off you with her movements, bunching up under you. As her fingers dive deep below, gliding circles over your clit, you breathe out a wanton laugh. Finally. Mizu was here, touching you, it was meant to be like this. Clutching at her arms, pulling down the straps of her underclothes to rid her of them, you think you could die. What a precious woman to have above you, clawing lines into your sides that’ll unfortunately inevitably fade. Your fingers follow their path, wanting to imprint them upon your consciousness forever.

“Keep showing me,” You can barely speak, muttering. “Do it like The Count would.”

Briefly pausing the journey of her tongue down the dips of your thighs, she nods against you, huffing out a near mindless ‘uh-huh’. Traveling upwards from the inner crease of your knee, she licks a stripe up your thighs, her hot panting warming the cool trails of saliva.

“The Count will tell you that you’re soft, warm, and…” She’s grabbing your legs, putting your feet flat on the mattress with your knees raised and spread. Her head knocks against you as she leans, eyelids fluttering when she gazes at your center. “Breathtakingly beautiful.”

You’ve raised yourself up to your elbows at this point. Her hair tie had come loose, dark locks flowing down past her shoulders. With the moonlight bathing her in a halo, you wanted to tell her. Tell her she’s an angel. Beg for her to not leave you, as pathetic as it’d make you look. Anything to make it so that just the two of you could exist together, you didn’t care where. You’d put up with every disgusting pervert in the world if it meant she stayed by you. If, at the end of the night, you could have her slip into your bed– whether your bodies met in a flurry of excitement or not, you wanted her there.

Her hesitance, though, was noticeable. While you enjoyed the stroke of her palms against your thighs, you worried if she had any intention to do this– to want this. You swipe a thumb over her cheekbone, startling her as her irises dart to you. There’s an emotion you couldn’t quite discern in them. In hindsight, you recognize it as the same way you’ve looked at her all this time.

Lovesickness.

Petting at her hair, you smile down at her. “Would The Count be staring like this, too?”

“Sorry,” The breath of her laugh washes over you. “He would.”

With her apprehension seemingly gone, she presses a chaste kiss to your clit– so charming of her it makes you whine. Her eagerness is shoddily hidden behind her subtle actions, tongue rolling over you in leisure strokes. But her hands, gripping onto the outside of your thighs to hold you down, are shaking. It’s less like she’s keeping you steady and instead trying to maintain her own sanity. The tentative lapping had soon turned more confident, Mizu becoming more assured each time you moaned or gasped. Greedily trying to push your hips up, you feel Mizu’s palms flatten over you, exerting enough force to keep your lower body grounded to the mattress. Still, in at least some way to satisfy you, she speeds the movements of her tongue, the rhythmic patterns it traces over your clit. Her eyes flutter open to peer up at you. You can practically feel her smile into your cunt as you uselessly try to halt the wobble of your thighs. Your head buzzes with the way her noisy slurping echoes in your ears, the way you feel like your very fucking existence is driven down to this singular point of your arousal, the way the tip of her tongue dips shallowly into you. She hardly ever pauses, the rumbling of her groans and heavy breaths shooting pleasure up your spine.

“Miss,” Reluctantly, she had pulled herself off of you, head still between your thighs and mouth stained with your translucent arousal. “Should I keep showing you?”

You whimper, sitting up and wrapping your arms around her waist. You gulped in doubt, wondering how to word your next thoughts.

“Mizu… I want to,” Your eyes dart down to where she’s shed her underclothes, completely bare before you. “Can I?”

You were hopelessly, unequivocally in need of it. A hunger you needed to sate, to please the most beautiful girl you’ve ever known. Taigen had claimed you a peach. You knew better, though. It was Mizu who was worth adoring– soft in the same way the fuzz of a peach is. More than anything, you wanted to partake in every part of her she’d give you. Scrape your teeth, bite and embrace her down to her innermost pits, until the heat of your humiliating starvation could finally cool. You had always been the one devoured, be it by greed or perversion– just once, you wanted to be the ravenous one.

You’ve noticed now that she blushes very easily, up her neck all the way to the tips of her ears becomes bathed in a red flush. You can’t help but chuckle at the sight, pressing a quick kiss to the corner of her lips, finding that you taste a bit of your own wetness.

“Okay,” She nods, chest falling with a heavy exhale. “Like this.”

Mizu effortlessly moves you in her arms, positioning you both so that you’re on your sides. She’s got you between her thighs and her between yours. Part of you wanted to scold her and tell her you just wanted to fuss over her. Mizu’s seemingly content though, a soft sigh escaping past the lewd noises of her tongue. If the scene weren’t so erotic you’d have laughed, told her how cute she is. You’re not sure if she would’ve listened, having always averted her attention away from any compliments you tried to give her, but she really was.

Not wanting to waste any more time, you take her thighs in your hands and part them, making space for yourself. Your breath caught in your throat, immediately latching your mouth to her clit.

She’s loud.

Practically wailing at the first suck, the way you messily circle your tongue over her, over and over. Her voice reaches a pitch you’ve never heard from her. It fuels you, fuels the way you lay the flat of your tongue against her. A wordless plea, begging to hear even more of her moans. You quickly become addicted to her– her sounds, her taste, the feel of her cunt as she tries to ride her hips into your face. You collect every pearl of slick from her onto your tongue so you can eagerly drink its sweetness, pangs of heat throbbing within you with every drop you savor. Mizu keens into you, rutting more and more the longer you lap away at her.

You think you could for the rest of your life, sustain yourself only on the wetness that drips from her.

More. The word repeats itself in your mind as you’re shifting away from her, pulling her up and into your lap. Knees firmly planted by your sides and pelvis raised, you sneak your hand below her. Cupping her arousal in your palm and thumbing at her clit, you smile up at her. Her moans are these sharp intakes of air, lustful gasps that leave your thighs hopelessly squeezing together. Eye-level with her breasts, it’s an urge you can’t resist– taking her peaked nipple between your teeth and biting. She lets out a stuttered laugh, an angelic sound that you hope the beat of your heart replicates forever, holding you by the back of your head and snuggling you closer to her. You let your middle finger swirl against her entrance, half-lidded eyes staring up at her from where you’re still pressing kisses to her chest. Mizu swallows, teeth digging into her lower lip as she nods. Laving your tongue over her, you sink your digit inside her. She writhes a little at the intrusion, welcoming the stretch regardless. She’s more than wet enough to take it, you muse. Pushing in and out, you relish in the way her warmth clenches around you, the way her body wants you, tries to suck you back in as if you’re a vital missing piece. Biting into the soft side of her breast, you tease your ring finger alongside the other. When you feel her walls adjust to both, you fasten your pace.

“Mizu,” You’re mumbling into the valley of her chest, chaste kisses left behind in the wake of your words. “Do you like this?”

That blush of hers is dappled across her skin again, collarbones, neck, cheeks and ears dusted with a brilliant ruddy hue. Her lips shut into a tight line, hiding a warbled and muffled moan, a pitiful ‘yes’ slipping out.

“Do you like me?” You’re grinning, though you’re aware of the way your eyes must look glazed over, a collection of tears on your waterline.

Energetically nodding, she lets her hands wander up your arms, steadying on your shoulders as her hips move on their own accord in tandem with your fingers, before continuing on to take hold of your cheeks. Like she’s ready to take care of you before you even ask her to, before anything is visibly wrong, she just knows.

“Promise, then,” You’re crying now, tears having fallen down the slope of your face, hiccuping an almost grief-stricken sob. “Promise you won’t betray me.”

Mizu’s lips part, brows furrowing as she shakes her head. “Never, I never will.”

Her words tumble off into gasping, pitchy moans. Your chin on her sternum as you look up at her, your tears finally slowing. You had heard what you had wanted all this time– she promised. Her utterance of devotion, a rush of cool water over every piece of fiery anguish within you. You loved her. You loved her, and the knowledge that you do finally makes your world quiet. No nagging, lingering fear. No ogre waiting in the shadows to smother you. No unnecessary pains doled out upon your innocence. For a moment, one that would be all too short even if it lasted for eternity, the two of you are the only people that exist. No fiance, no Taigen.

Mizu, and just Mizu.

She places her hands on your shoulders, pushing you backwards so you hit the mattress with a thud. After some shuffling around, you’re able to take hold of her hand, using it to grind your pussy against hers. Mizu’s mouth drops open, eyes wide as she imitates your motions. The two of you are perfectly slotted together. Every feverish, wet pass of your clit over hers has you nearly collapsing. Your breaths mingle together, slipping out as heated sighs.

“How,” Mizu swallows thickly, trying to catch her breath. “How do you know these things?”

You just smile at her, shaking your head. Gripping her hand a little tighter, you’re able to thrust against her faster. You’re only vaguely aware of the way your inner thighs become coated in the mixture of your arousals, feeling like you’re coming apart at the seams. Mizu’s moans pick up in pace, hitching every so often when the two of you connect in a pleasurable jolt. Her other hand is clutching, nearly clawing at you, wanting so badly to break skin and leave marks on you. With her mouth falling open wide, eyes trained on you, Mizu tumbles over her peak, the quivering of her thighs noticeable against your own. Her groaning doesn’t stop, an arm flung over her eyes as you can make out the hint of tear tracks by the corners of her mouth, the redness of her cheeks hidden. Hearing her, her loud cries of pleasure as you keep going send you over the edge, a few more slick joinings of your cunts together, and you’re there with her, the current of your arousal running through your body. Finally stilling, you can hear the breathy, lighthearted chuckles of Mizu once you fall backwards, arms spread out on the mattress under you. Mizu crawls the best she can, kissing up your navel to your lips, settling beside you. Her hair’s mussed, the dark tresses flowing behind her, eyes shining and face stippled in pink blush.

What a precious woman to have by you.

That memory was one you came to ruminate on often– especially the day after that, where Taigen had put his hands on you during that painting lesson, bribing Mizu out of the room with a coin. Or at least, attempted to. Her unwillingness to leave had undoubtedly pissed Taigen off tremendously, him storming out down that rocky dirty path. Mizu followed shortly after, as did you, having secretly trailed behind both of them. You had listened in on their conversation, hiding a laugh when Mizu had stomped away after defending you.

Taigen had stood there dumbfounded, looking at you past the branches of trees you lurked behind.

“Can you at try a little fucking harder to pretend you want this marriage before she runs off?” He hisses.

Exhaling, you look out in the distance where Mizu had walked away. “I... can't. I want to quit,” You swallow, hugging yourself close. “I hate everyone here. My fiance, my mother, you...”

Taigen snorts at that, raising a brow. “And Mizu? You feel sorry for her?”

You nod. “I... can't stand her.”

He shakes his head, lighting a cigarette and taking a few drags of it. “Would you care to know some of the things she's said about you? That you're too sheltered. Even if I were to touch you intimately, you'd be completely oblivious to what a man like me wanted. She's only been nice to you out of pity, start being realistic.”

As much as you hated to admit it, you dwelled on his words for much longer than you wanted to. It's an inescapable cycle of blame you go through. It's your fault for not knowing better, then it's Mizu's fault for being so kind to you, and then it's Taigen's for starting this all in the first place; repeat until you're suffocating.

That must be why it's difficult to avoid crying when Mizu insists, yes, you will love Taigen. Resting on that lounge chair, her massaging at your weary calf muscles. When you're ripped from placid waters, thrown right into stifling flames to burn alive, it hurts, you realize. It's the best comparison you can make when Mizu all but tosses you to Taigen's waiting maw, solidifying what he had said to you. Pity. No matter how much you try to assure her that you could be happy here, happy with her, more so than you ever could be with The Count or your fiance, she doesn't budge.

“What if I said I loved someone else?” You asked, feeling the slow rising of warmth up your frame. “I don't have anyone else on this earth... would you really still tell me to marry him?”

Repeating her own words back to her, you hoped she would notice. Take the hint, absolve herself of all this, and be with you. Fix everything, prove she wasn't like everyone else in your life. You want her to be different. You need her to be different. How could she have done all this if she wasn't? Even now as you looked down upon her in anger you could feel the stains of her lips everywhere she had kissed you, could feel the brush of her knuckles across your cheekbone, the way her hands had made your body so pliant. You couldn't comprehend it. How could all of that be worth so little to her that she'd be willing to give it up for a chunk of money? Was that look in her eyes just a trick of the light, your mind's imagination?

Blinking back tears, you watch as she sighs, taking your leg into her hands once more, timidly trying to settle your frustration. “You will love him.” Mizu's looking up at you, the twinge of optimism in her eyes making you sick to your stomach.

She really believes what she's saying. She's doused you in kerosene, her insistence the final motion that sets your body alight. You would've given up this whole fucking charade if she had just kept her promise. You would've done anything to get rid of Taigen, even if it meant staying in this house, just to assure the two of you could be together. But if she doesn't even want it, then what's the point? If she doesn't even want you, then…

“Get out,” You don't even recognize your own voice, faltering with shuddering sobs as you take her by her arms to pull her up to a standing position. “Get out.”

“Wait, miss!” She calls out, but you barely register it before you're dropping her down onto her bedroll, retreating back into your room with the door slammed behind you.

Maybe Madam Kaji was right about ogres waiting to smother you. This world in which you had no one, this world which had been patiently waiting to swallow you whole, will finally get its rightful meal.

You shouldn't have been born.

Silence drenches the night, goosebumps over your skin as the breeze rustles at your clothes, your hair. You're shivering, staring up at that haunted cherry blossom tree. Tears continuously rolled down your cheeks. Fingers trailing down rough bark, wondering if it's worth it to try to ground yourself. Your fury had not been quelled, not in the slightest. In your mind, you could see Mizu's eyes, the way they were practically begging you to fall in love with Taigen. How could you tell her that it's not just that you didn't love him, but you couldn't? How could you have stupidly believed her, that she'd never betray you? Swallowing a laugh, you look down with teary eyes at the box in your hands containing a length of rope.

You shouldn't have been born. Poor, unwanted thing that you are.

Distant thuds reach your ears, harsh and quick breaths– the sound of someone nearly hyperventilating– flooding your senses. Before you can even turn around, you're hit with an overwhelming force, being corralled into a pair of arms.

“Let go.” You whimper, struggling.

“I'm sorry,” Mizu gasps, chest heaving against your back. “Don't... don't die.”

She represses a trembling sigh into your shoulder, the faint moisture of tears dotting the bare skin of your neck. You're surprised, brows raising.

“And what are you sorry for?” You question, seeing if she'll be honest.

“I was working with The Count, we were going to send you away and take your money,” She picks her head up from your shoulder so you can clearly hear her. “So, please... don't get married to him.”

“Are you worried about me?” You turn around in her arms, taking sight of her tear-stricken face. You had never seen her cry, never thought she would, at least not in front of you. “You shouldn't be.”

Taking a step back, she keeps her hands on your arms. “Why not?”

With a thumb pressed into her cheek, you swipe away any stray droplets. “Taigen and I were tricking you. You were going into the madhouse, under my name. Then I'd get to take up your name and run far, far away.”

Her eyes dart across your face, unable to sense any hint of a lie in what you've revealed to her.

“Fuck! I should've never trusted that asshole!” She yells, piercing the quiet of the night.

But her arms are back around your waist, coddling you close to her chest. Like if she can't feel the pressure of your body against hers, you'll be gone, whittled down into infinitesimal shards she couldn't see anymore. Her truth lies in the way her breath evens out, the way she gathers your wrist up in her hands, fingers caressing your pulse point, to lead you back to your room. How she checks behind her every so often to make sure you're alright. Those little actions that make her Mizu, the real one.

Maybe Madam Kaji was wrong about ogres waiting to smother you.

Mizu sits at your desk, carefully writing out a letter to her folks back home, informing them of the new turn of events; the two of you teaming up against Taigen. Placing a solid gold bracelet next to her which she could enclose as payment, you settled down alongside her. Taking the bracelet between her teeth to test its legitimacy, she grinned.

“This'll go far for them, thank you.” She tells you.

When she's feeling genuine happiness, it's hard for her to wipe the smile off her face, you notice. You hope that once you two are able to make it away from all this, she never stops smiling.

So the next morning, when your fiance beckons you over to the side of his carriage, you don't let your fear stop you.

“Just because you have a week of freedom, doesn't mean you can misbehave,” His words were full of venom as he spat them towards you. “Don't forget where I'll put you.”

You take a bow, eyes cast to the cobbled ground. You wouldn't let him get to you, not any longer when you had Mizu there for you. The two of you would be successful, and then you could run so far from this place you wouldn't remember how to get back even if you tried. Nobody would be able to find you again. If they did... you're sure Mizu would have some things to say about that.

Slowly approaching her, you smile, willing any bad thought out of your mind at the sight of her pretty face. “Let's go,” You tell her. “We don't have a lot of time before we have to leave.”

“Come, then.” While she offers you her arm, you're hesitant to take it, choosing to step past her. You would've, but the idea of Taigen still lurking around the estate and the possibility of the other servants not having gone far, you avoid her touch.

You can hear her sigh behind you, though you're aware of the light undertone to it– she knows you're trying to refrain from any rumors cropping up before you leave, lest Taigen catch wind of them. Her steps follow you, wordlessly keeping up. You're thankful she seems to understand why silence befalls the two of you. Though you feel the subtle gesture of her hand at the small of your back, tensing for a moment. Mizu's breath hits your ear when she leans in even closer to you, her raspy voice calling out to you to 'come on'.

There's a moment after packing your things that you turn to her, hands smoothing down her apron. Your fingers are twisting into the fabric, not ready to have her change into her 'disguise’– really just a cloak, her glasses and a kasa, but it does well to hide her face– quite yet. She's always been your handmaiden. Even with it being a role for her to fill, a part to play, she's tended to you with such care. You couldn't wait until you were both just normal people. No ladyship, no servantry. You wanted to dote on her, flood her with all of your affections and have no one bat an eye at it. Though, she pulls your hands from her, holding them in her own. Her thumbs graze across your palms, a distant look in her eye.

“What are you thinking about?” You ask her, which definitely startles her out of whatever daydream she's having.

“About how we need to leave,” Mizu takes your arms in her hands to spin you around to face your luggage. “Let's go, princess.”

That little nickname she's given you makes you roll your eyes, watching as she cloaks herself and puts on her glasses and kasa. The sight almost makes you blush, the way she's effortlessly beautiful and handsome at the same time.

“Actually,” You speak up, turning to her anxiously. “Would you follow me?”

She's unsure, you can tell by the way her eyes squint, but she agrees. After last night, you're sure she's on edge, rightfully so. Finding out the tables were turned on her must've been difficult, but she knows you feel no loyalty to Taigen. Despite everything, you two are each other's safety. Taking her down that stepping stone path to the library, you're not entirely sure where you're going with this. That place had been your whole life, and maybe the idea of leaving it behind was a little terrifying, regardless of the grim reality it held within its walls. Perhaps you just needed to see it one last time, really make sure you were leaving it behind.

Mizu's startled by that ceramic snake again, carefully toeing the barrier between inside and outside. She steps over it once she sees you bypass it, unafraid. You see her briefly grimace at the sight of a small, erotic porcelain statuette. Your fiance has a few of those around, blatantly making his predilections known to those who enter. Perhaps she thought it was just a little one off, a bizarre trinket owned simply for the peculiarness of it. She's corrected when you hand her the volume of some series she's never heard of. Flipping through the pages, she halts when she comes across the illustrated pages. Women in various degrading positions, breasts and nether regions fully drawn. Those blue irises of hers somehow become even icier, glancing from the book, to you, back down to the book.

Her gaze catches on the spinel earrings one of the women is depicted wearing.

“Is this...” Her voice is gravelly, like she's straining to get the words out. “What you've been reading, this whole time? To your fiance, those men that show up?”

You're not sure what you expected when you brought her here. Maybe your whole life, you've known that what's been done to you has been wrong, that you've been used as an object of desire to satisfy certain pleasures. Her anger, though, radiated through you. Tugged on a heartstring so deep within you you thought it had been entirely cut loose. She looks up at you one more time, meeting that teary gaze of yours. Mizu shakes her head, taking that page in her hands and ripping it from its bindings. Striking the long buried part of you that felt you were worth something. Worth fighting for, worth rendering this whole library asunder. Throwing the book on the ground once the drawing is in tiny pieces, she moves forward fast, looking for whatever she can get her hands on and destroy. Her chest heaves with every agonizing huff of breath she inhales, fueled by the heights of her rage. That saddened look in your eye, which had been hardened over time into something you had resentfully accepted– the pure hatred she felt for anyone who had ever betrayed you, tortured you, anyone you had ever read a fucking word to.

Her cape billowed behind her as she moved through the room, grabbing books from their rightful places and hurtling them to the ground below, ultimately damaging their spines and covers. You're trailing after her, a lost puppy watching in amazement. Shreds of paper litter the floor, stepping on them in your rush to follow. Pulling a concealed dagger from you don't know where on her person, she's slashing through the parchment of as many scrolls as she can find. Kneeling on the ground and slicing page upon page. Those familiar stories, all ones you recognized, made useless at the hands of someone who loved you. She yelps, the dagger handle slipping out of her palms with how furious her motions were. It does little to deter her though, collecting it and continuing her assault of the library. Shoving entire rows of novels onto the floor, books ending up in ruined heaps. She throws open one of the glass display cases, the lid shattering upon impact to the floor. Carrying over pots of colored ink, she smears it over the illustrations housed within. Hands stained all manners of red and blue, you can't stop the few tears that finally slowly shed.

You wet your lips, feeling pieces of you come together at this unhinged spectacle of romance. Isn't that what the relationship between you two has been all this time, anyway? An unexpected force that knocked you on your ass the moment you realized you loved her. More than that, the moment you realized she loved you. Yes, exhaustion had buckled you into submission, but love had weathered you into a storm.

Hurrying over to the tatami mat floor, you remove some of them to uncover the shallow pools of water that lay below. Mizu nodded, gathering up piles of the books in her arms to bring them over. Helping her, you could feel your lungs burn, eyes painfully wet with... astonishment? Pain? Some mixture of the two, perhaps. She kicks her shoes off, stepping into the water to fully submerge the books. To the side stands you, holding some more pots of ink. You're petrified. Until she looks up at you, and the fury in her eyes subsides when she sees you, turning into that gaze you know, now.

Lovesickness.

You hurl ink into the water, effectively dyeing the books into a muddle of colors. Joining her in the water, you stomp away, pulling even more books in. Breathing labored, Mizu steps out. Gripping a flat length of metal adorned with a tassel in her hands, she stands before that snake. Steadying it in her hands and widening her stance, she swings hard. Shards of ceramic go flying, the head taken clean off the sculpture.

It's your life in summary. Those bits of shrapnel, the way Mizu had torn your life apart the second she stepped foot in it.

Your savior.

Your Mizu.

There's a renewed vigor in Mizu's movements as she guides you out of the manor. One of her last acts of protecting you before she begrudgingly has to place you in the arms of Taigen to fulfill the rest of the plan. This time, when she offers her arm to you, you take it. She keeps you level over even the most jagged paths, catching you when you stumble. A cobbled wall stands between you and your freedom, slowing down to a stop when you reach it. Mizu drops the satchels you carry to the ground, heading over the wall. Her arms go around your waist, picking you up and placing you down on the other side with little difficulty.When she lands next to you after grabbing your bags, you can't help but smile at her, a dreamy look in your eyes.

“What?” She asks, a hint of awkwardness in her tone.

“Nothing, nothing!” You bump into her with your shoulder.

She sighs, shaking her head but hiding her expression from you. “Come on, we don't have any time to waste.”

Running through grassy fields, the sun finally starts to peek through the treeline. You barely ever have any time to catch your breath, but your rowdy laughter and wide smiles are proof you don't care. You know it won't be long before Taigen meets up with you, taking you away and sending Mizu off into that asylum. For now, you're together. In this world only the two of you exist, where your hands can meet, lips can kiss. Your only witnesses being the fall of the moon and the rising of the sun, the soft blades of grass beneath your feet, the bubbling creeks of water.

Everything up to that point had led you here– Mizu being hauled away, crying out for you. Yet your cheeks hurt from containing your chuckles, the knowledge that Taigen would have everything handed back to him, tenfold. All the unnecessary shit he's put you both through... He'd be nothing in a matter of days.

You click your tongue, clearing the tears out of your eyes.

“I'm hungry, Taigen.”

a/n: so, this chapter is like. over twice the length of any of the others, sorry about that. hopefully that makes sense for why it took longer to update! i would've split this chapter in two, but… i couldn't see it being split in any good way, personally. also, it's likely that the next chapter will be the last, i'm not sure if i'll do an epilogue yet though. anyway, i hope you've all been enjoying the story so far!

[gloomwitchwrites]

Dark Knowledge: Part One

Miraak x Hermaeus Mora x Female Dragonborn Reader

Chapter Specific Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): canon-typical swearing, canon-typical violence, brief blood, horror elements, tentacles

Word Count: 4k

A/N: Part One of Dark Knowledge

The Dragonborn opens up a Black Book and steps into the realm of Hermaeus Mora.

Part Two

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // dark knowledge masterlist

On the island of Solstheim, deep within a cave, is a book.

Before you, the book rests upon an intricately carved pedestal large enough to hold the massive tome. The walls and floor around it are tentacles sculpted from stone. They form a tangled mural behind the pedestal and book.

It is a Black Book. A tome of esoteric knowledge. A Daedric artifact attributed to Hermaeus Mora, the Prince of knowledge, memory, and Fate. You’ve heard the tales—mostly from one of Master Neloth’s wayward stories. With your reputation, Neloth asked you to retrieve a Black Book, giving you its precise location.

Maneuvering through the cave was the easy part. Now that you stand before the massive tome, your feet have turned to solid steel. The book is bound in a black cover that appears soft to the touch as if it’s a living thing and not just Daedric reading material. On the cover is the symbol of Hermaeus Mora. Between the pages, a black mist leaks out and surrounds the book in its immediate vicinity. That doesn’t account for the oddly pulsing air, as if the book is vibrating, disturbing the space around it.

You do not move closer. You do not approach. You stand near the base of the stairs that you just descended. There is no eagerness in you to take a closer look.

“So. This is what Master Neloth wanted us to retrieve?” asks Teldryn Sero. The Dunmer mercenary stands directly behind you and to the right of your shoulder. He crosses his arms and also keeps a decent distance away. “Looks foul. I wouldn’t touch that if I were you.”

Without looking away from the Black Book, you answer him. “Sounds like you’re starting to care about me, Teldryn.”

Teldryn snorts and leans in, his helmeted head appearing next to your face. “You pay me to care. Therefore, I shall. I like the coin. Keeps my pockets full.”

“Ever the poet, Teldryn.”

“Naturally.”

The good humor is just a front. This…thing is repulsive, and you’re not sure you want to touch it, let alone open it.

Master Neloth isn’t the only reason you’re after this thing. Back on Skyrim, during a visit to the town of Riverwood, a trio of cultist attacked you. Before they lashed out, they mentioned someone named “Miraak.” From there, you came to Solstheim, only to find parts of the local population seeking out stone pillars. There they toiled, repeating a mantra that made no sense.

It all led to Skaal Village where the shaman, Storn Crag-Strider, diverted you to Saering’s Watch to learn a Word of Power. The All-Maker stones, as Storn called them, are all cleansed. But it only pushed you deeper into this twisted treachery. Storn was adamant about not turning to Hermaeus Mora for assistance in defeating Miraak, but did mention Black Books and who would know more.

Master Neloth was that person.

Now, you’re here, staring at the thing everyone’s been talking about, and you’re not entirely sure who to trust.

As if drawn by an invisible tether, your left foot slides forward toward the Black Book. Your mind registers it only when Teldryn reaches out and grabs your shoulder.

“What are you doing?” he asks with a whispered sharpness. Teldryn pushes you up against the stair’s central support pillar. “You are not touching that.”

“How else are we supposed to get it to Neloth?” you snap.

“We don’t,” replies Teldryn. “I love gold but I’m not stupid. We don’t need to do this. There are plenty of other jobs out there for us to do that don’t involve anything like that.” Teldryn emphasizes his distaste by pointing at the Black Book.

“But I’m the Dragonborn. I have to do this.”

“Do you? Do you really?”

You square your shoulders and stare Teldryn down. “Yes. That’s my destiny as—”

“Is that what those old loons up on the mountain told you?” interrupts Teldryn. “That you have to solve all of Tamriel’s problems?”

“No, but—”

“But nothing. You are not beholden to anyone but yourself.” Teldryn pauses a moment and then inclines his head. “Except me. Still owe me from that bet we made in Windhelm.”

“If I pay up, will you stop talking?”

Teldryn considers. “No,” he says after a few long seconds.

The two of you turn your heads in the direction of the Black Book. The black mist around it appears thicker, and distantly, you hear voices whispering. Yet this inaudible chorus seems miles away, their voices just existing at the edges of your hearing. Teldryn is Mer, and his ears are sharper than your human ones.

“Teldryn?” you ask softly. “Do you hear that?”

His head tilts to the right an inch. “Hear what?”

You focus in on the sound, pushing all your attention into deciphering the message. It is a chorus, a resounding force of voices all harmonizing together, but every time you try to pick a word out, the understanding slips and you’re left with nothing.

“Voices,” you murmur. “Do you not hear them?”

Teldryn shakes his head and then slowly pivots to face the dark tome. You take a step closer and Teldryn blocks your path.

“How can you not hear it?” You’re not speaking to Teldryn but to the air, thinking out loud rather than seeking an answer.

Teldryn is no barrier. You push past him and make it five full steps before Teldryn is able to cut you off. He places his hands on your shoulders, halting your forward momentum.

“The Black Book is speaking to you. Hermaeus Mora is calling you to him,” says Teldryn, shaking your shoulders.

Your nostrils flare and you smell ink. It is thick and viscous. “I should open it.” The words fall from your lips easily, as if you are one of the possessed and hearing Miraak’s mantra.

“This is insanity,” hisses Teldryn. “You’re not risking your life like this.”

The voices strengthen, and between each intake of breath, you hear their song. It is not one language but many, and they all speak in unison, their words matching up in syllable and pitch. Some of the voices sound entirely mortal. Others are odd. Primordial. You do not understand them and their strangeness batters away at your brain.

Something wet drips onto your upper lip. You don’t wipe it away.

“Your nose is bleeding,” murmurs Teldryn. Behind the Chitin helmet, all you can see are the Dunmer’s eyes. But they speak volumes. His concern is evident.

The tug to open the book is unyieldingly powerful. There is no part of your body that isn’t sizzling with the need to touch the fleshy cover and reveal the secrets inside. In the end, you will have to open a Black Book. In the end, you will have to involve yourself. All roads lead there. You know this in your marrow.

“They’ll never stop coming,” you say, and each word is laced with sadness.

This is your purpose. This is the life placed before you. The gift of the Voice is not one you asked for. It is not something you ever wished upon yourself. But there is no way to give it back. Time and Fate will eventually catch up to you.

Better to face it all now.

“You owe no one nothing.” Teldryn is not a liar. At least, not to you. He respects you even when he disagrees.

“I know.” The admission is painful.

“I can’t protect you once you open that book. We don’t know what will happen.”

You shake your head. “Miraak’s temple is too heavily guarded. I cannot seek answers there.”

“We cannot seek answers there,” corrects Teldryn, his voice breaking slightly. “Where you go, I go.”

“You only say that because I pay you well.”

Teldryn gently rests his helmet against your forehead. “You pay me shit.”

The bit of blood on your lip rolls down to your chin. “Don’t wait for me,” you whisper. “Whatever you do, Teldryn. Don’t. Wait.”

Teldryn’s chest heaves with a great sigh. “I get your homestead in Falkreath.”

“Deal,” you laugh as another wet drop falls onto your upper lip. Teldryn loves that house, and it’s been nothing but trouble for you.

With a final squeeze of your shoulders, Teldryn pulls away, moving out of your path, revealing the Black Book. What dwells inside the book is the unknown factor. You could go mad. You could experience visions. You could simply disappear from this plane. There is no telling what might happen.

The harmonious voices strengthen as you stride closer. On the cover, the symbol of Hermaeus Mora begins to glow a sickly green. Around the book, the black mist thickens. In its foggy depths, the shadows of tentacles unfurl. They are transparent. Faint, dark whisps. The tentacles venture outwards, reaching as if seeking an embrace.

Another step. Another. Another still and then you’re right there, staring down at the thing that won’t stop talking.

Neloth will have his book, but you need this to end.

The tips of your fingers brush against the edge of the Black Book’s cover. It is not fleshy as you expect it to be. It is coarse, but not sharp or scratchy. Slowly, your fingers curl around the edge. There is a hesitation just before you start to open the cover. Moving with you, the pages follow the cover, and then the yellowed papers inside present themselves.

At first, there is nothing. The pages you stare at are blank. In the next second, all sound disappears as if the room is frozen in time. It is followed by a soft pop, and the world comes hurtling forward.

The blank pages begin to fill in archaic, living writing. The unknown words and symbols move across the page in systematic lines and circles. Some are large and easy to see while others are so tiny they float around in the background in faint swirls.

Between the pages is a void. It emerges from the binding, moving outward over the pages. It is an abyss, and its emptiness drags you forward, your boots lifting off the floor until you’re on your toes.

Tentacles burst forth from the darkness. These are not the misty tendrils from earlier but real, tangible limbs that slide over and around you. They wrap around your arms and shoulders. They suction to your face and neck. They probe and push even as you thrash about, trying to break free.

Escape is impossible. You’re hauled forward, tipping down into the abyss, delving into the darkness. There is a loud roaring and then your feet are on solid ground.

The abyss is gone, and instead…

You’re not entirely sure where you are.

Around you is an alcove made of black metal. Attached to it is an archway made of books that connect to a long hallway. The books within the archway are stacked on top of each other, almost seeming to melt together near the center curve of the arch. Beneath your feet is stone. Some of it is gray like the rock on the side of mountain. Other chunks of stone are black and dull. There are pages from books scattered all over the ground but they aren’t moving. They simply rest where they lay.

You bend at the knees and reach out, sliding a fingernail under the corner of the nearest page. Its only lifts an inch or so, and with it comes something syrupy and sticky. You immediately retract your arm and stand, wiping away the reside on your leather pants.

Slowly, you rotate, surveying your surroundings. It’s only when you turn around that you notice the Black Book. The symbol of Hermaeus Mora does not glow. There is no black mist or odd whispering.

Without second guessing the choice, you grab the cover and open the book, expecting to find what you did just seconds ago.

Nothing.

The pages are blank.

You flip the page. Nothing. Flip again. Still blank.

You go to the beginning, examining every inch of paper. No living words or symbols appear. The book is dead. Silent.

Frowning, you spin around and stare down the long hallway. The air is stale and absent of wind. Glancing up, you peer through the small holes in the black metal. A glowing, green sky greets you. There are streaks in the sky that move like clouds but their radiance is more like lightning. Shifting on your feet, you change perspective, and discover a black abyss cutting through the green sky.

Is that what you fell through?

As you watch the portal, black tentacles drop from its darkness and sway as if caught on a breeze. But you feel no wind against your skin. Then again, you don’t sense a temperature either. You’re not cold but you’re not warm, as if the very atmosphere is adjusting to your body temperature, making the stale air around you feel like absolutely nothing.

Wherever you are, it is an atrocity.

Without a way to go back, the only path is forward.

With overly slow movements, you unsheathe the sword at your waist. The hallway isn’t well lit, but there is enough light to see by. Crouching slightly, you move on silent feet, keeping close to the wall without touching it.

The stone floor gives way to twisted metal, and the walls are nothing but books. You do not stop to peer at any of them. This place is dangerous, and you need to be alert at all times. Survival is essential. Information is important. Any clues that you can take back to Neloth or Storn might help in unveiling the mystery behind this stranger known as Miraak.

Hermaeus Mora is not unknown to you. You grew up on stories about Aedra and Daedra. They were standard tales, but when you were a child, those beings seemed far from the reality of your life.

It is so very different now.

Neloth did not shy away from talking about the Daedric Prince. It was Miraak that the Dunmer dismissed, seeming more concerned with Mora and the Black Books.

What was it that Neloth said about Mora’s permanent influence? Madness. Loss of self-awareness. Black spots in the whites of the eyes. There are no mirrors and you cannot see your reflection in your sword. You’re not mad, but for a brief moment you thought you were when Teldryn couldn’t hear the voices. Your self-awareness is intact. At least, for now.

Storn called Mora the Skaal’s enemy, and spoke of hidden Skaal knowledge that Mora wishes to obtain only for the sheer pleasure of possessing it. But Storn did not say more, merely focusing on the destruction of Miraak’s influence.

As you round a corner, you arrive at an open platform. Instead of approaching, you hang back, observing your newly unobstructed view of the environment. From here, the glowing sky and black portals are in clear view. Various structures dot the landscape, and it stretches in all directions.

But there is no landscape. There are no trees or blades of grass. What should be the ground isn’t rock or dirt but a dark liquid that resembles black water. It is as dark as parchment ink, and the surface of it ripples slightly as if something moves beneath it. You have zero desire to know if its as fluid as an ocean or thick like honey.

The platform itself is rounded and juts out slightly from the opening. As you step closer, the platform shifts and fans upward, extending like the wings of a dragonfly. Another appears from above, connecting to it to form a bridge.

There is a tower there, the outside of the structure nothing but pillars of books. Your gaze sweeps across it and the surrounding area. Nothing jumps out at you except the strangeness of the place. Nothing and no one lurk nearby.

Cautiously, you step out onto the bridge. Still, there is no wind. The air is still. With silent steps, you creep to the next platform. When you crest the small curve in the bridge just before the landing, you come to a stop and immediately drop to your stomach.

A strange creature hovers just inside the archway. It has four arms, two of which hold books while the others rest against its sides. Its head is squid-like with two thin eyes and no eyelids. Hanging from its shoulders are rags of some kind, but at this distance, it might also be fur.

It has not noticed you, and you use this to your advantage. Silently, you set your sword next to you, and remove your ebony bow from your back along with an arrow. Easing up to a low crouch, you pull back on the bowstring, aiming the pointed tip of the arrow at the head of the bizarre creature.

With a book in hand, it seems such a gentle creature. It’s head tentacles flare as it reads as if the words on the page are amusing. A brief moment of hesitation stays your hand. Then you remember the voices and mist, of how blood dripped from your nose from the brawling nature of it all.

Your finger slips from the bowstring.

The arrow whistles.

It lifts its head in curiosity.

Making contact, the arrow slides between the creature’s eyes.

There is no noise or cry of pain. It vanishes in a brief vibration of mist. The rags it wore and the books it held hang suspended in the air before falling to the ground. The books hit hard. The rags drift slowly.

Before the rags touch the ground, you’re up and moving, returning your blade to its scabbard. You remove another arrow from the quiver. In this moment, you are a stealthy killer, a being of darkness in a place made for it.

Your humanity will not pause your hand. The answers you seek go beyond that. You are in Hermaeus Mora’s realm. You are alone. Teldryn is not here to help you. Everything going forward must be done with only yourself in mind.

As you step off the bridge, the dragonfly-like structures break apart. You glance back and meet open air.

A howl reaches your ears. It bites and claws, sounding of blood-filled lungs. All the hair on your arms stand on end, and your skin prickles with awareness. The awful sound comes again. It’s closer. Moving in. Trapping you against a threat of falling.

There is a ripple. A change that you sense. Of a predator seeking its prey.

You drop to your knees as a ball of vibrating air launches over your head. Spinning toward your assailant, you release the notched arrow. It strikes true, hitting another one of those creatures.

This one shrieks. Then doubles. A replicate appearing beside it.

With quick fingers, you release two more, sending the tentacle twins vanishing into puffs of mist.

It is clear that your presence has been detected. Stealth will be of little use if the beings of this realm are actively seeking you out.

Charging down the hall only proves what you expect. More of these creatures lurk nearby, actively waiting for you to make an appearance. These are not visible. They are beings of mist, and they solidify with a blink, popping up from nowhere before your very eyes.

The first surprises, nearly knocking you down.

The second almost grabs you. It’s clawed hand just grazing your leather armor.

The third hurtles into you, but you manage to roll into the fall, getting back on your feet with ease.

The bow is useless. They are too close, disappearing then reappearing in rapid succession. Your blade is sharp, and you are eager for a bit of blood.

The steel blade rings loudly and the first swing strikes true.

“Fus!” The power of your Voice slams into one of the tentacled creatures. It flinches back. Recoils from your blow. It is enough for you to drive forward.

You duck and weave, slicing through the air and dispatching your assailants with the skill that has made hundreds tremble.

But there is no blood. These creatures do not bleed. They simply vanish into mist.

Chest heaving, you finally have a moment to gauge your new surroundings. It’s a massive circular room. There are several large, metal double doors scattered throughout the room but the doors are shut, barring entry.

All expect one.

With resolve in every step, you march forward toward the open gate, passing rotting stacks of books and floating eyes with tiny tentacles. They look like horrific stars. They even blink, following you for a few strides before drifting off to move about the room.

You ascend the raised dais, pass through the doors, and up another flight of stairs before you’re spit out onto another platform.

Unlike the previous platforms, this one is already attached to a bridge. It spans a great expanse of black water, connecting to another tower. But there is too much open space between the towers, and there is zero cover. You would need to sprint, or use a Shout to speedily propel yourself across.

A roar from behind you stirs your feet.

“Wuld Nah!” In seconds, you’re halfway across the bridge, already sprinting to the other side, your arms and legs pumping with every step.

“Dovahkiin!”

The primordial voice is an anchor tied to your feet and you are in deep water. Sinking. You are sinking. The bridge beneath you is melting, sucking and solidifying around your boots.

With a cry, you reach down and try to lift your leg. Nothing. You are rooted to the spot.

A shadow falls across the bridge. A deep, unsettling, slimy sensation slithers up your spine and wraps around your throat. Your eyes are fixed to your submerged boots.

“Fate has led you here, to my realm, as I knew it would.” Your fingers tremble and you refuse to look up. “All seekers of knowledge come to my realm, sooner or later. That is what you are after, isn’t it? Knowledge. That is why you answered my call so willingly.”

No forms on your tongue. You did not come willingly. Or did you? Yes, the pull was there but you intended to open up the Black Book. Didn’t you?

You’re…certain?

A lone black tentacles drifts in front of your face. It wiggles slightly, moving toward your nose. It retreats slightly, and then with an odd gentleness, curls under your chin, lifting your face to the Daedric Prince floating in the sky.

Hermaeus Mora is a grotesque abomination. He is a green and black mass, a void of tentacles and eyes. His entire being pulsates, expanding and retracting as he…breathes? Do Daedric Lords need to breath? Or is this just a formality to make you more comfortable?

If it’s intentional on Mora’s part, it’s creepy, only adding to his aura. Hermaeus Mora is large, taking up so much space he’s all you can see. While he hovers in the air, Mora is not far from you. In fact, if you lift your hand and extend your arm, you’d easily touch him.

The large eye in the center of it all blinks slowly in observation. “Is the Last Dragonborn a fool? Speak, mortal. Why did you come to me?”

Deep in the recesses of your soul, a stubbornness blooms. Your mouth does not form the answer he’s seeking. Instead, your lips pull back, and you bare your teeth like a feral animal.

“If you are the Prince of Fate, surely you can answer such a simple question. All this knowledge around you, and yet you cannot form your own answer. I expected more.”

Hermaeus Mora bristles, his form expanding in size as his tentacles vibrate with irritation. “Be warned. Many have sought my halls. I have broken them all. You cannot evade me. You cannot resist.”

The bridge rumbles. Hermaeus Mora’s massive eye slides up to watch a point over your shoulder. Slowly, you turn, finding yet another abomination. This one is incredibly tall, almost amphibious and slightly humanoid. Each of its footsteps shake the bridge.

Mora is calm. Serene. The creature moves closer, each shattering step a threat.

“You are in my realm now, Dragonborn. Apocrypha will be your home. You will converse with me and I cannot wait to know your secrets.”

From the monster’s open mouth emerge a wave of tentacles. They wrap around your body. They cover your face and slide into your mouth, reaching toward your lungs.

“Sleep,” hums Hermaeus Mora as your consciousness begins to slip. “And then we shall talk.”

Part Two

taglist:

@glassgulls @km-ffluv @singleteapot @tiredmetalenthusiast @childofyuggoth @coffeecaketornado

[tempestgnostic]

The Werewolf: Archetype and Identity

Someday I’ll make a list of my alterhuman and otherhearted identities, but I’m not sure when that will be. For now, I’ll just talk about the the most prominent one: The Werewolf. I capitalize the name for both its significance and the fact that it’s an archetypal identity, so to speak. (I also use he/him throughout this essay, simply because I’m speaking of The Werewolf in relation to myself, and as myself.) I’m not a specific werewolf in any sense, and I’m not drawn from just one piece of folklore, or even one broad interpretation. It’s much bigger than that. Of course, explaining all the finer details would require an essay, and time is at a premium nowadays. Therefore, since brevity is the soul of wit, and tediousness the limbs and outward flourishes, I will be brief. Pay no attention to the appropriately-timed readmore.

Let’s look at an example of what I mean: the eponymous baron in Bisclavret is a specific werewolf, but he’s also one of many depictions of The Werewolf as a somewhat noble being who is wronged by others—in this case, his wife—as a consequence of his true nature. This “noble beast” interpretation can be contrasted with folk tales of feral werewolves who threaten villagers and fear neither torch nor blade. Werewolves aren’t solely monsters meant to inspire empathy or fear, however. They can also serve specific literary functions, often as symbols of broader concepts and experiences. The werewolf story can be used as a metaphor for a young person coming-of-age, a challenging tale of tangling with the darker aspects of human nature, or even as an exploration of queer identity and the liminal spaces we occupy. These are certainly not unique to werewolves, and the latter is especially common among other creatures embraced by the horror genre.

Each broad interpretation of The Werewolf feels to me like a part of my identity on some level. I’m the werewolf who feels guilty for the harm he’s done, who tries to resist his feral urges, but I’m also the one who embraces that side and indulges in it. I’m the werewolf who was born this way, the one who was blessed (or cursed) by some spirit or deity, but also the one who was bitten or scratched—forever changed out of cruelty, indifference, or even a dark perversion of love. The only bits of werewolf folklore I won’t engage with on some level are those from practices and cultures that are closed for me. They’re not mine to claim on any level—certainly not in any way that would be respectful.

Like so many in our community, my connection to The Werewolf is intricately intertwined with almost all other aspects of my identity. I’m genderqueer, yet I strictly use he/him pronouns. I have a beard—a thick one, at that—and a flat chest, yet I also identify myself as butch and sapphic. It’s been uniquely gender-affirming for me to have partners who identify as lesbians—to be fully seen and understood as butch. It would feel incredibly uncomfortable and even dysphoric for me to be with a straight woman. Even within queer spaces, at times I feel either gravely misunderstood or utterly invisible. I am, on some level, expected to conform, and my refusal to do so marks me at best as ‘confused,’ and at worst as a threat.

I embrace the androgyny in my voice and mannerisms, and I easily—often unintentionally—slip into different social presentations depending on who’s around me. (I’m also autistic, to no one’s surprise.) Code-switching comes naturally to me, likely as a result of having to cobble together adequate social skills over the course of a decade, but also as a matter of safety as a queer person who’s only ever lived in red states. The Werewolf is a liminal creature, existing in several different worlds at once and moving through them with varying levels of ability. I am no different—charming and quick to make friends when I know the social landscape, and terribly awkward and clumsy when I don’t.

In the interest of keeping this even remotely readable in one sitting, I’ll wrap this up here. The Werewolf can be a charismatic yet dangerous lover, a pitiful and wretched thing, a creature just beyond the veil of understanding, or even a kindred spirit. I am and have been all of these things, both in my external life and my mind’s inner world. I experience phantom and mental shifts, and I see myself in so many depictions of werewolves in media. This part of my identity plays a vital role for me in kink—though I’ll save the details for a properly 18+ post—in my relationship dynamics, in my pagan spirituality, and many other parts of my life. It fits neatly over my gender expression like a second skin and provides a backdrop for my social presence. I am The Werewolf As Archetype: a being representing liminality, transformation, and embracing authenticity—at any cost. It is a vital part of me, without which I would cease to be.

[habit-poxly]

father neptune (pt.4)

Simon “Ghost” Riley x Reader

sea-monster hunter au!

description: After months of mulling over his confession to you in his head, Ghost finally is able to slip into your cottage and unravel his feelings. Lots of fluff

warnings: strong horror elements, early 1800′s dating, 

word count: 3.5k

masterlist | Pt.1 | Pt.2 | Pt.3 | Pt.4

It was rare for Ghost to become flustered, it was something he had managed to restrain as his youth slipped away. As he grew older- and as the allure of beautiful women wore off- he resided to himself in solitude, fully accepting the reality of men of his profession. Men of the sea were notorious for being scum to the women whose beds they crawled into. That widespread belief rendered his options for partners increasingly limited- regardless of if marriage was something he was keen on. 

He was sure at some point in history a sailor of his stature would have been a charm to the women in London, but not now. No, men like him weren't the sort women would resign themselves to marry; a woman wouldn't be satisfied with waiting on the shores for the likes of him- that he was sure. He could provide little outside of hoarded wealth, affection or love didn't come naturally to Simon. He had long passed the ability to feel shame for how beautiful he found her and was rather relieved when she found his incessant staring cute, not horrifically unsettling.

It had long since grown dark, she had allowed him to sit on her couch where they spoke for hours; he had told tales of some of the best battles of his youth, watching her eyes crinkle at the corners when she laughed. In return, she recounted times from her childhood of monster carcasses washing ashore, or her swinging on giant, bleached bones that were sticking out of the sand and rock. The topic of conversation seemed to avoid her actions on the beach altogether, neither of the pair wanting to spoil the comfortable atmosphere that had grown. 

"Did yah grow up on the island?" He leaned back into the couch, trying his best to keep his eyes from falling over your form in less than respectful ways. You seemed like a modest woman, one dressed properly with hair drawn back neatly, even if in an outdated style from what he was used to seeing of women back home. You wore a plain blue dress, no ribbons or ruffles, with a white collar that sat strung around your neck. 

He watches you mull over the question. You flatten the dress fabric in your lap before shaking your head and mouthing a silent 'no'. 

"If I'm being honest, I don't remember much of anything at all. I have bits and pieces, things I can't make sense of as to why I remember them..." There was a pause before she began again, clearly trying her best to mull over the fragments and piece them together. 

"I can't tell you if my father was tall or short, or what the colour of my mother's hair was- but I remember being in the streets of Dublin when a newsboy announced George Washinton had died. I remember a British soldier pushing me over when I was only four or so- I remember living in lots of different places but I only remember ever living here. In this house." 

Simon nodded, his lips growing into a tight frown under his mask. 

"How long have yah been here alone, love?" The nickname seemed natural in this setting, pet names had always been something he had to force out of himself- not for her, the way her eyes would light up made it worth it. 

"A while." She shrugs, once again she flattens her dress, fingers fighting with the soft fabric. 

"Bet yah don't even have a bathroom inside all the way out here." Simon hums,  a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. It was undoubtedly a luxury, one new and rather expensive. It was something that could only be experienced on the mainland, and he silently added it to the growing number of reasons why she would be far better off there with him. 

She giggles and shakes her head. "I have a barrel that I put boiled water in, that's my indoor plumbing." 

"Horrific. Can't imagine livin' in these conditions" Simon replies, allowing a soft chuckle of his own to slip out. 

"Oh!- I'm sure boat life is just so much better. I certainly envy the months out in the open ocean covered in your own sweat and surrounded by rats." She leaned closer to him, a large smirk growing across her face. 

"S' not as bad as you'd think. You should smell her' when somethings been rotting in her' hull for a week. None of the boys come close." Simon shrugs and stretches his arm across the back of the couch, a now large grin settling over him as he watches your face contort into disgust.

"That's shocking!" She softly pushed his chest and laughed, moving just a little bit closer to him. The action was small, something she most likely hadn't even put thought into- yet it sent his body haywire. 

Admittedly Simon had always been the best at this part, the enisle flirting was something he had mastered in his 20's, anything past that point, though, was almost entirely new. He had been in relationships, sure, yet none that he was particularly invested in, he had never been the pursuer of commitment- yet now he had to be. It wasn't uncommon for men in this day and age- especially of his age- to propose at least a relationship rather quickly after meeting a woman they liked. He had strong doubts any other man on the island was interested in a betrothal with her- yet the urgency remained. 

Marriage culture in London was something he had avoided like the plague, it being a dance of image and reputation that he had no interest in. Men and women were to marry young, have children young, and die young, yet the pair of them sat childless, single, old and alive. You looked to be older than 25,- yet certainly not older than 30-  and for a woman as stunning as he had found you, it was beyond a surprise that no man had ever proposed to you at all. 

Simon had accepted the reality of him begin marriageless as the rest of his crew had, yet that had never meant he wasn't lonely. For years he's laid alone in his cold cot in Manchester, thinking intently about what he could have done differently, how he could have prevented being alone. He had craved the company of a woman for far too long, he had pushed it down so far it had become insistently painful- unignorable. 

Something about you had rattled something inside him loose; you had breathed the ability to love and be loved into him. 

He was rather alluring himself, especially to a woman who had been on her own for quite some time. His dusty blond hair had been cut short along the sides, leaving long bits up top that stuck out messily. His features were sharp, strikingly so, having thick eyebrows with a deep scar slashed through one and piercing blue eyes. The bit of fabric covering the bottom half of his face was most certainly hiding a stubble-covered jaw.

"What happened here?" You pointed politely to your own eyebrow, eyes soft with concern that makes his heart flutter. 

Simon's hand instinctively moves to the scar. He had gained so many over the years that he had stopped taking stock of where they were- or what they were from for that matter. 

"Ah- got it when I was 18." He grumbled, the memory still causing a hot pain to strike across his face.

"Was on my first real hunting ship- most of the other lads were young too, one of em' did something stupid and let a rope snap while we were hauling something in. Whipped me right across the face. 'Suprised I didn't get a scar 'long the whole left side." He watches her eyes flicker with empathy, somehow becoming even warmer as the story ends. 

"I'm sorry." She mutters, for a moment Simon stills, unsure of how to respond. 

"You don't have to apologize to me, love. You didn't do it." He shakes his head, moving his arm slightly to tug you closer to his side.

"Why do you cover your face?" You ask, another question with only pure intention, yet it still tugged at Simon uncomfortably. 

"'Prefer it this way, it stays on, love." 

"Are you hiding something?" Your head tilts to the side. 

"Just my face." He shrugs.

"Are you ugly?" 

The question had been asked so many times his response was nearly automated at this point. 

"Quite the opposite." 

A large smile crosses her face, it was something she clearly already knew. 

Desperately did he want you to lead him upstairs, to offer him to lay in your bed while he sleeps against your chest, or for you to run your fingers along his scalp and down his sore back. Everything about you was sweet, the way you did your hair, your soft tone, and your cries in the night, all grew overwhelmingly endearing with little effort on your part. 

Simon Riley had never been 'whipped' in his life, no woman had ever reduced him to that level, but sitting in front of you, he was whipped. He had accepted that truth during the endless nights he spent tossing and turning, dreaming of you. He had wondered if maybe you had dreamt of him as well, perhaps he haunted your dreams, perhaps that was the reason for the heavy bags under your eyes, your endless crying at night. 

"Why do you haunt the beach?" Regardless of him now knowing for certain she was a human woman, he still considered her a ghost, one like him, one whose private haunt he was encroaching on. 

She sucks a breath in sharply, the sudden question catching her off guard.

"Why?" She repeats. The question lingers over you as you try to come up with an answer. There had never been a particular reason as to why, you had simply just done it, allowing your grief to wash away into the ocean. 

"It feels good." You shrugged, the answer seemingly embarrassing you. 

"It feels good to scream out to the ocean, she listens to me... Just listens. Not many will do that- listen to the sorrow-filled wailings of a woman running up and down the shoreline like a banshee." 

"I listened." Simon could help but let it slip out. He had listened, he had listened intently, he tried to place her pain, and in his dreams, he would bet to take it from her- for her to give all of her sufferings to him, he would handle it all for her. Too many nights he clung to her in his dreams, too many nights he spent clinging to her, desperate to keep his head above water; no longer for himself, but to see her. 

Your face grew a deep shade of red and your lips tightened into a deep frown. "You listened and then followed and then I shoved over your friend- stole your things!" You exclaimed. "I have no idea why you would have any interest in listening to my hysterics." 

"Hysterics? You believe your feeling this way is all hysterics?" The disappointment in his voice was evident, something he was always unable to mask. 

"Well..." You averted your eyes from him, moving them instead down into your lap as you straightened your posture away from him. 

Suddenly he takes your hands in his, an action clearly neither had expected from him. He softly squeezes them before speaking.

"I'll listen. I'll listen if you'd let me- if you'd let me I'd take all of this from you, all your grief would be mine if it meant you'd be alright." He managed to force the words out, it was imperfect and certainly not the confession he had rehearsed on the way over. Her eyes dart back up to his face, her eyes widen as she studies him intently. After a moment of painful silence, she speaks, her voice small and unsure. 

"You don't know me- you know nothing of me at all." 

Pain tinges his heart at the comment, it was fair and he knew it. Sure, perhaps he knew her better than she knew him, surly her dreams weren't of the pair of them speaking for hours, living domestic lives together like his were; yet the comment still caused discomfort- distress even. 

"I do know you, my love." His voice grows uneven, the desperation he's managed to keep at bay beginning to slip out as her eyes lock with his. 

"I dream of you every night- When I look at the glow of the moon I think 'there, that was made for her.' Whenever I see the tide roll in I swear I think only of you. I'll see happy couples walking down the streets and wish desperately for it to be us- I've loved you in every life I've lived, surely that must be true with the amount of love I feel burning for you." Simon's voice shakes, each word said with full, honest intent yet still tinged with the self-restraint he's so accustomed to exercising.

"I know you." He asserts, squeezing your hands between his. 

His pale face had long faded into a shade of bright red, his eyes flick frantically between studying your face for a negative reaction and anywhere else in the room. 

"You're mad." You mutter as a rather dopy smile plasters your flushed face. 

"Mad?" Simon exclaims confusion painting his voice. After the hardest confession of his life, after possibly one of the hardest things he's ever done, she's called him mad. 

It took only a second more before your arms had wrapped around his neck and you pulled yourself into him. It takes an awkward moment for you to find his lips overtop the fabric mask instead of roughly kissing his jaw or cheek. Regardless of the fabric barrier, Simon moves his lips against yours, wishing desperately that the room were dark enough for him to rip it off. 

His hands move down to your waist, he softly pulls your hips into his and settles your weight on top of him. His arms snake fully around you, locking you to him as you had done in the reverse. You pull away to take a breath, softly pushing against him to give yourself leverage over his hulking body. He brings his finger up to your face to softly brush away a strand of hair.

The novelty of kissing with the mask had worn off quickly, it becoming far more of a nuisance than a form of comfort for him at the moment. It was rather obvious that you felt the same, finding it rather annoying that he wouldn't move it. Not yet, but as the moments with you dragged on Simon began to reconsider.

"This is mad." You mutter, staring down at his covered face; even with the mask, you could see crimson sneaking up his cheekbones. His eyes were blown- wide and entirely focused on tracking your face- and his hair had somehow managed to grow more out of place than before. Simon doesn't respond, it crosses your mind he may be entirely focused on you- and he hadn't even heard what you had said at all.  

He watches you in return, he watches your face fall from a satisfied smile down to one of guilt. 

"And rather.. informal." You cover your mouth with your hand, silently wishing you yourself were wearing a mask to hide your embarrassment. 

While you don't remember quite where you picked up your ideas around courting but you did know that you were taught that there was a proper and improper way of courting a man. It was quite different in England, many of their women only get married when they fall pregnant- however, there were things that had to be done before your and Simon's relationship could go any further. 

"We aren't courting and I've kissed you! I'm so sorry, Simon. I-" As you begin to move off of him his hands move to grip your waist more firmly before rolling fully onto his back, allowing you to straddle him comfortably. 

"Enough." He says firmly, your mouth snaps shut immediately at the command. He had certainly had some experience in barking orders. 

"Courting? That's what you want, yeah? Does that mean I can't touch yah yet?- You don't want me to?" He struggles to form a sentence that feels comfortable, every word feeling clunky to him. Intimacy and affection on a deeper level were something Simon doubts he's ever expressed. Sure, he had tender moments with his mother- but those were few and far in between thanks to his father. Above all else, he wanted you to be comfortable, to love him back, so he would take extra care in every action.

Normally in courtships, those involved don't kiss, nor do they straddle one another- but this felt natural, not undignified or shameful like you had imagined breaking these sorts of social customs would feel. 

"Well... I'm not too sure about that. I do want you to." You muttered, you understand courting, or dating for that matter was a custom in place to prevent people from marrying too quickly- yet intimacy can only happen within it so people tend to rush.

Simon's eyes crinkle from his grin, he moves his eyes down your form and adjusts your dress fabric to drape over him more neatly. 

"You want me to what, sweetheart?" The teasing tone in his voice sends shivers up your spine. 

"Oh stop!" A wide, flustered grin grows on your face as Simon chuckles deeply; he glides his hands gently up and down your waist and thighs. 

"I'll come back 'round again in the mornin', have the kettle on for me." He hums, this accent seemingly getting thicker the quieter he speaks. "We'll start courting, hm?" 

You smile, your stomach fluttering at the notion before the rest of his sentence settles in. 

"You're leaving?" 

He nods reluctantly, as if you even asking had made him reconsider. "Gotta get back before the lads come lookin' for a corpse." 

"They still think I'm a monster?" You can't help but allow a soft giggle to slip past your lips.

"Gaz wouldn't even leave the boat- poor lad." Simon lets out a hardy chuckle, clearly feeling far less bad for Gaz than he was letting on.

"You must have a thing for monsters then- I'm sure of it. No sane man would see a woman crying hysterically on the beach and think 'ah yes, that one'." Your grin doesn't let up, and neither does his. 

"Again with the hysterics." He shakes his head.

"Obviously I'm the most stable woman out there- couldn't find one who copes with minor inconveniences better." You say sarcastically. Simon huffs out a chuckle and nods, he's perfectly away of how odd his attraction appears, but he's always had an affinity for the uncanny or unwanted. Not that you were either of those things, he didn't find you unsettling in the slightest, perhaps that was part of the problem.

Reluctantly you two begin to pry away from each other's warmth, both moving to stand. 

"So stable you use a harpoon as a mantle decoration?" Simon's eyes finally lock on the pointed metal rod- he would have missed it entirely if his eyes hadn't caught the ship's name carved into the grip. Quickly you go to grab it down to hand to him but Simon stops you and shakes his head. 

"You can have it, darling. Soap isn't going to miss it."

"That's the one with the... with the hair?" You gesture out his haircut as best you can, you had seen many sailors with many odd style choices, but that one you had only seen on him. 

Simon nods, "How'd you know his name?" 

"Everyone on the island knows all of your names." 

"Word gets 'round about us?" You could nearly hear the smirk in his voice. 

"You guys all yell a lot." You grin widely as Simon rolls his eyes and scoffs.

You and Simon begin to exit the living room, you watch him dunk under the short doorframe before settling in the front room. He goes to grab for his coat but is stopped by you ducking under his arm and pressing your back against the door. 

"Let me." You grab the heavy black coat off the door rack and hold it open for him, it takes a second for Simon to understand what you're doing but he turns around and places his arms into the jacket. It was a small action, something typical for women to help men with, but it felt different coming from her. You two switch places as you open the front door, and a rush of cold, salty evening air burst into the small room. 

"It's an awfully dark walk to the dock... take my lamp, dear." You lean your frame out the door and point to a small table, atop it sat your good lantern. Picking it up he could tell it would have more than enough oil for the evening, he imagines you were planning on taking a walk tonight, one he had probably prevented you from taking. 

"Thank you. For the tea- and this evening." Simon says and nods to you politely. 

"Thank you for visiting me- and for asking me to court you." You can't help but shutter under his intense gaze, how desperately the pair of you wished he didn't have to go- but he did. 

"Goodnight, Simon." 

 "Goodnight, love." He flicks on the lantern and turns from you.

You watched Simon walk all the way down to your garden gate before closing the door, then moving to watch him from the window. You watch him stop and turn back once, then again after taking a few more steps forward, then again, before he disappears fully over a small hill.

You imagine he'll be here painfully early in the morning. 

taglist: @blueoorchid @@hoe4myers @yjhariani @lexi-zsy09 @galaxieshearme @tumblinginoz @icepancakes @iluvweasleys @crunchlite

[joysmercer]

dear reader, you wish to know the story of that house, so full of mystery. but first, you must understand the story of that home, of the people who lived there, who saw it at its best and tore it down when it reached its worst. that is the only way.

at the start, and nearly forever after that, there are two. ying and yang, gemini, twin fires, whatever you choose to describe them – there are always two, tethered by forces stronger than than you or i could ever dream to understand.

until there isn't. until, one fateful night, the ancestral process so innate the world carries it out without instruction falters. the first of the pair – the paragon – splits. it's brief, merely a blink of the eye before amneris realizes her mistake and stitches it back together again. but a rift is a rift, and the stars watch in horror as her counterpart soon follows.

and then there are four.

joy and patricia, who aren't the true paragon and osirian, but drawn to each other from childhood like they would have been if they were.

nina and amber, on opposite ends of the world, meeting only by coincidence (if you think about it), but share a bond like no other anyway.

nina and joy, something deep within them knowing something broke all those years ago, and that somewhere out in the world is someone almost like them, but not quite, a kin and a foe at the same time…

…patricia and amber, something deep within them recognizing this plea for help from the other half of their pair, and responding with their purest, most natural instinct – protection.

patricia, who meets her new roommate and knows, logically, it's irrational, but can't help but scream fire! anyway.

amber, who turns against joy before she can even think about it, who latches onto the new girl almost immediately, who has no explanation for either behavior except, simply, that she wanted to.

joy, who walks through that house feeling like something is calling her, all the time, the pull only calming around when she's with her best friend but intensifying scarily around her worst.

nina, who not only understands the words the walls whisper to her but that someone else is listening, is privy to the most private conversations that should be hers and hers alone.

do you know how it hurts, to try to put parts of you back together you didn't even know existed? parts you cannot reach, no matter how hard you try? do you see what that does to a person?

does it make sense, then, why it ended the way it did? why two left abruptly, one unable to take the pressure of that house and the other simply following her like it was the most natural thing in the world?

do you realize why the other two – the pair that never should have existed, but did anyway – why they tore apart, like strangers under the same roof? why, for all their tales of sisterhood and family, never spoke of that time in their lives while the other was in the room, finding others to confide in instead?

now, do you understand?

[monsoon-of-art]

What are your main inspirations. I love your art.

You have no idea about the can of worms you just opened-

Truthfully; a lot! I take inspiration from everything and everything. That's what artists do :) but there's a very very long list of books and shows and movies I've watched/read that have stuck with me.

As a child I had a weird bunch of VHS tapes, video games, and books. Mom and Dad was a comic collectors, and dad was a musician so I got a lot of interesting songs too. Some notable bangers are: Yellow Submarine (the animated movie), the sonic movie, a few episodes of Pokemon (the one I remember most is the island of giant pokemon and when Pikachu gets ramen), and Spyro. I also watched a fair share of Disney and Pixar, Bug's Life and Nightmare Before Christmas being my favorite.

Sonic is definitely what I remember drawing the most, tbh. My first OCs were fan children! But animation was my absolute favorite thing ever, and I wanted to draw so good-

Once I was in my early to late teens, I got my fingers on the Internet, (and learned to pirate) my horizons broadened! My favorite artist at the time made a comic called Random Doom, a slice of life comic about their gen 4 team, and I literally would not be here today without them. They have no idea I exist and I'm happy with that. I haven't followed them in years but I remember them fondly. Another big artist I followed (and still do!) is Bechnokid! Her art is such an inspiration to me, even now! I want to steal it and put it in my mouth

Other notable things: the first two how to train your dragons, glass animals, Spiderverse, Cartoon Saloon, You Are Umasou, Indie Horror projects too long to list, Don't Starve, Lord of the Rings, old fairy tales, MegaMan (especially the Mangas drawn by Hitoshi Ariga), Steven Universe, the original Teen titans, Avatar the last Airbender, Bobs Burgers, Futurama, and honestly probably so so so so much-

[grey-gazania]

End of Year Fic Recs

Tagged by @sallysavestheday and @polutrope

I tag everyone tagged here and anyone else who hasn't done this yet!

Recommend up to 5 series or multi-chapter fics from 2023 that everyone should read (multi-year WIPs count, if the last update was in 2023).

Recommend up to 5 single chapter fics/one-shots (long or short) from 2023 that everyone should read.

Recommend up to 5 fics NOT from 2023 that everyone should read (oldies but goodies).

Recommend up to 5 of your own fics (completed or WIP) from 2023 that everyone should read.

This was difficult!

Multi-Chapter/Series

We Will Make This Place Our Home by @leucisticpuffin, which is my new comfort fic and has A+ kidnap fam characterization.

Gloom, Doom and Maedhros by @hhimring, which I've been dipping in and out of since approximately 2011 and which never ceases to impress me.

Elegy for Numenor by @elfscribe. Not the kind of story I generally get into, but Scribe's OCs are vividly drawn and have captured my heart.

Maglor is an Eldritch Horror by @thescrapwitch. Who doesn't love a touch of horror in their fanfiction? Part 11 (Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark) is a particular favorite.

The Importance of Peer Review by @sallysavestheday, a series of Finrod-centric comic stories that never fails to make me howl with laughter.

One-shots

Tender Morsels by @sallysavestheday, which depicts a delicious and unsettling yet tender moment between my OTP among OTPs, Fingon/Maedhros.

As the Hare Flees Before the Wolf by @emyn-arnens. The author's note says "Rest in pieces, Eöl," and that is a sentiment I will always endorse. This also includes some wonderfully perilous Celegorm characterization.

Ilimbë by @thelordofgifs. This is everything I ever wanted out of a Fëanor/Nerdanel courtship story, and the characterization is utter perfection.

A Damnable Spot by @imakemywings. Kidnap fam with an extra helping of creepy! I think Elwing deserves to haunt Maglor a little bit. As a treat.

And a bonus two-for-one, because they're by two different authors but they go together: Desperation and Defeat by @elentarial and Maiar Hate This Simple Trick by @zealouswerewolfcollector. I'm a big fan of both humor and Celebrimbor/Narvi, so these both absolutely delighted me.

Oldies

Home from the War by @hhimring. Himring wrote this as a gift for me back in 2020, and it remains my favorite Círdan character study of all time.

Ain Melir Den Urui by Thranduil Oropherion Redux/Randy_O (whom I don't believe is on Tumblr). This Last Alliance themed send-up of Some Like It Hot dates back to 2011, and it's one of my go-to fics for when I'm feeling blue and need a good belly laugh.

Touch of a Vanished Hand by @elfscribe, from 2010. I love Scribe's character study of a younger, more hot-headed Elrond meeting his brother's descendants in the aftermath of the sinking of Numenor.

Winter's Drums by @lucifers-cuvette, from 2014. I absolutely adore Pandë's take on Sauron and Celebrimbor's relationship, and this deeply unsettling but evocative ficlet is one I've returned to many times.

Trinity, also by @lucifers-cuvette, which is from 2007, pre-dating my entry into the Silmarillion fandom. It was the first of Pandë's stories that I read and was my introduction to her amazing Pandë-verse.

Mine

Ill News, a Second Age kidnap fam aftermath fic that I initially posted as a one-shot in 2022. But an enthusiastic commenter inspired me to expand on it, so I added a second chapter in 2023. There's at least one more chapter to come, assuming I ever overcome my current case of writer's block.

Loyalty: A Tale in Three Voices, which is the WIPmost likely to kill me one day. I have a deep and abiding affection for the House of Ulfang, and this is the result of that.

And They Looked Up and Saw a Star, my ongoing early-days kidnap fam WIP. I'm enjoying exploring the relationships between both sets of brothers.

Maps, my Thangordim rescue Fingon/Maedhros WIP with a heavy serving of Caranthir. I'll readily admit that this fic has been an exercise in pantsing all the way and that I have no idea where I'm going with it, but the journey has been fun!

I made several updates to Woman King this year, which is my fem!Gil-galad WIP (sometimes affectionately referred to as the Girl-galad WIP, because I love stupid puns). This is by far my least popular series but it is also my favorite to write, because like all writers I have tropes that I love, and Rule 63 is one of them. Tolkien's works are an undeniable sausage fest and we need more ladies.

[thatonebirdwrites]

Fandom creators tag game

1. What sort of content do you create, and what is the thing you’ve made that you’re most proud of?

I write stories. Usually original science fiction, but in the past two years, I've branched into fanfiction. I also create art and music.

I'm damn proud of my rewrite of Book 2 of Legend of Korra in my Shared Moments series.

I wish I could find a publisher for my original fiction; then I could share what I'm most proud of but alas. The publishing market is incredibly hard to get into and I don't have the health to self-publish, so we'll go with the Korrasami tales for now. For art, I'm damn proud of this piece I did of Lena.

2. What fandom(s) do you create for?

Korrasami from Legend of Korra.

Supercorp from CW's Supergirl

Rojarias from CW's Supergirl.

3. What is your current favourite ship (or brotp if you prefer), and how controversial is it?

Korrasami. Not controversial much at all. (As a side note, Supercorp feels like an angstier Korrasami. Might be why I like that ship equally well. Supercorp doesn't seem controversial?)

4. For your answer to question 3, are they canon?

Yes, Korrasami is canon. (Supercorp isn't necessarily canon, but there's so much evidence of it in the show that it might as well be.)

5. What was your first fandom, and how old were you?

First fandom I created something for? Or first fandom where I dived into and read everything I could? Because if it's read everything I could, then it's Star Wars before Disney threw out the old Canon (still salty about that). I'd have been pretty young -- still a kid when I was devouring all the Star Wars books. I didn't have any favorite ship though while I did this.

For something I created, Korrasami was the first one I wanted to create art and writing for to be honest. That was three years ago when I started writing Korrasami.

6. What is your most unhinged fandom creation to date?

Oh, that's a Supercorp one. I was inspired by a weird camera glitch, and wrote an unhinged horror set after season 6. The first part of it is in tumblr. I have yet to publish to AO3 mostly because I want to finish more of it before I do. Sort of loosely based on Lovecraft's Color out of Space.

7. Do you remember what started you off creating fandom content, and if so, what was it?

Three years ago I first started drawing and writing Korrasami. Then I branched out into Supercorp.

8. Do you let people you know in real life see your fandom creations?

Only my trusted friends and siblings.

9. How do you feel about fanworks of fanworks? Has anyone ever made something based on a thing you made?

If anyone did, they have never shared it with me. I would love to see it, and I'd treasure it always!

Though if I'm being honest. I doubt I'll ever get fanworks. Why would anyone go to that much trouble for something I wrote? I doubt anything I write is worth that much.

10. What feeling do you most often try to evoke with your creations?

I want to show possible healing journeys that aren't the most painful angstfest known to humanity. I want people to feel the journey too, to capture the world within the character's senses so that their tale feels real.

Whether I achieve this, I have no idea. Some people have written very kind comments stating that I have, and I am delighted by those comments.

11. Has someone ever paid your work a compliment (in any form) that has stuck with you, and what was it?

Two people have said I made a place feel alive through the storytelling and worldbuilding I did. That compliment haunts me in all the best ways, and I have done my best to try to keep that tradition going.

12. What’s your favourite thing someone else has made that you’ve seen in the last 24 hours (and link it if you can find it again!)

It was a Supercorp art piece, but after searching, I can't seem to find it again. It was Lena leaning backwards into Kara's arms, while Kara gently holds her. Colored piece, digitally drawn I think. They look almost like they were swaying back and forth.

13. Give a small sneak preview of something you’re working on right now (eg a couple of sentences of fic from a WIP, a gif set theme, a small piece of a larger picture, whatever you feel happy to share)

Korrasami:

Korra looked at their entangled hands. “Yeah, yeah, it’s just some stitching.”

“And yet, that ‘some stitching’ made something wonderful.” Asami was determined to remind Korra of what she could do. It’d been her mantra for the past six months. She wanted Korra to regain her confidence, but it'd been difficult. Thanks to Asami's foolishness they'd both backslid.

Korra had called it Asami’s paranoia.

Maybe they were both right.

Supercorp:

Lena rises before dawn, prepares her corporate armor, and heads to her full-time job as CEO of L-Corp. Today’s agenda includes four meetings, one of them with the board, an hour of lab time, a brief lunch, and a visit to Florence in late afternoon.

It’s the visit with Florence that troubles her the most. The exposure to the strange artifact gave her unsettling dreams, and she woke in a cold sweat after a particularly gruesome one. In that one, she’d had no control over her body, only watched in horror as another person used her abilities to harm all she loved.

Kara had woken too, and her gentle reassurances had helped Lena fall back asleep, this time with no dreams.

Diving into work to escape the nightmares is how she copes. Perhaps not the healthiest, but undoing all her bad coping mechanisms will take far longer than just admitting they exist.

Rojarias:

Tomorrow morning? Sam reeled from the news. That gave her very little time to pack and prepare Ruby for Sam being gone a week or two.

Yet here she was again, unable to say no. Especially not when two beautiful women were looking at her expectantly.

Damn, Sam was too gay for this. “All right. Tomorrow it is.”

14. Have you ever seen/read anything made by the person who tagged you? If so, what was it and what was your favourite thing about it? (pick a favourite if there are several)

Yes, I have. I'm not entirely sure what exactly they published on AO3 however. I found the tiny Kara piece absolutely hilarious.

15. Do you leave comments on fandom works, and if so how would you describe your comment style?

I do leave comments, yes. I share my enjoyment of the piece, sections that really stood out to me, and/or an overall feeling I got from the piece. I'm trying to be more consistent about it since I know how much comments mean to me as a writer, and I know other writers enjoy them too!

16. How many works in progress do you currently have? Will you finish them all?

Original fiction: (on hiatus but I do plan on finishing) 3

Korrasami: 2 (plan on finishing them, yes).

Supercorp: 3 (yes, plan on finishing them.)

Rojarias: 1 (yes, I need to get on this as it's due next month actually).

Art for Supercorp: 1 (I also need to work on finishing this before the due date next month. I got the rough sketch and need to run it by the author to make sure it's what they want, before I go to town inking it).

17. what’s the longest it’s ever taken you to finish a fandom project?

Shared Moments: Books 1 through 3 (the finished ones) took me a year. A million words no less. Whew. I'm working on Book 3.5 now. I tend toward longer works, which takes a few months to complete.

My shorter fiction (the ficlets) take less than an hour usually.

For art, it takes me one to three weeks.

18. Describe the thing you made most recently in a way that is technically true, but also completely misleading. Link the thing if it’s published!

These paralleled kisses shake their world. (A chapter for Unraveling Realities)

19. Do you ever engage with fanworks for a fandom you’re not in? Which one(s) and how did you get into it?

I'm not really sure what counts as being "in" a fandom or not. If I enjoy something, I'll engage with it, but does the engagement mean I'm "in" the fandom now? Or do I have to create something and talk with others in the fandom to be considered "in?" How does this work?

20. Recommend a fan work from your fandom to your followers

I absolutely adore Make this your home by pcrtifacts so much I even made fanart for it. It's not finished, but it's regularly updated and so, so good.

Suggested tag list, but there are no rules here, follow your heart.

A mutual you have never actually spoken to but think seems cool -- All my mutuals are really cool! And I'd love to read more of their stuff. Thanks all of you for sharing your stuff!!

The most recent person whose content you engaged with (eg read a fic, reblogged art, whatever form you feel best fits) -- I'm not sure? Maybe the person I reblogged this from?

Someone whose content you saw via tags/reblogs and you followed them because of it @luthordamnvers (I honestly love the indepth knowledge of the show nic has, how willing to share that knowledge, nic's kindness, the fics they write. Honestly, all around wonderful person.)

Someone in your fandom that you think makes cool things @ekingston (Shape of Soup being my favorite plus the art is amazing.)

Someone in a different fandom that you think makes cool things (this is hard. I really only seem to follow or find Korrasami, Supercorp, and on rarer occasions Rojarias or Dansen. There's some Star Wars folks that do fun things, but I can't remember their usernames tho.)

Someone you always tag on things like this @nottawriter

Someone you have never tagged before (I can't remember who I tagged before, so I guess whoever wants to play this game?)

Someone you would like to get to know better @pcrtifacts (love, love their make this place your home fic. And chatting in comments with pcrtifacts has been lovely.)

Someone who makes art you like -- @snazzy-korra (honestly, she's an all around amazing person, and Iove all her art and chatting with her. So grateful for our chats too.)

Someone who writes fics you like: @fazedlight (I seriously love everything mel writes. It's all so damn good. I even wrote a fanfic continuation of a piece I really liked of mel's ficlets. First and only time I've ever done that.)

I suspect some of these people have been tagged multiple times. My apologies if so. But I did want y'all to know how you're appreciated and how much I enjoy your content too. :)

[marine-indie-gal]

Considering that the Broadway Musical of Andrew Lloyd Webber's "The Phantom of The Opera had already ended its performance last year, I've recently dug out to what happens to be (if not) the Most Obscure Phantom Adaptation ever that's more drawn to inspiration rather than an Adaptation titled, "A Monster In Paris". Why hardly known as the "Less Phantom Adaptation" ever? Well, you see, it's mainly one of those Both Original/Inspired Adaptational Story that does quite have a few of its similarities from Gaston Leroux's work (compare with Most Famous Inspirational Adaptational-Based Films like with The Lion King (Hamlet) and even Frozen (The Snow Queen)). Anyways, yes, I am one of the few people who do consider this Film as a Phantom Adaptation despite many of its Changes from the Source Material, but it still felt a bit more of a Comedic version of the Horror Story itself (much like with Rocket Pictures' Gnome version of One of the Famous Shakespeare Tragedies, "Romeo and Juliet"). Though, like with "Gnomeo and Juliet", it did flesh-out more of the Characters' Personalities and did clean out most of the Dark stuff as it does play out as a Friendly Version of My Most Favorite Gothic Horror Novel of all time. Here I drew Lucille and Francoeur together, because while if rather not if I do like this Ship or Not, I consider their own Relationship more as a Platonic version of the Death/Maiden trope (that, or because maybe I just have no idea rather or not if Francoeur is already supposed to be an Anthro, despite being an Insect). Side Note; I am Perfectly Fine with Human/Anthro pairs.

But also, Another sidenote; Did you know that this Movie was directed by one of the Few Folks that made "Shark Tale"? 🤡 Lucille and Francoeur (c) Bibo Films

[thatweirddolldude]

Oh golly a pinned!

Hello!

I am Gore or Apollonides!

I'm a mature semirealism artist and writer. I'm the guy who makes HC for things no one will ever ask about!

I will take asks about anything! You may even suggest drawing ideas to me!

I draw mostly podcasts! I don't really enjoy characters with canon designs, so if you ever do see a character with a canon design drawn by me it will be a personal design.

-

Things I like!

Malevolent

The Magnus Archives & The Magnus Protocol

Archive 81

Welcome to Night Vale

The Two Princes

Invincible(Show & Comic)

The Boys(Show only)

Books by Ned Vizzini

Anthropology(Religious, artistic, cultural)

Woe.Begone

-

I do write and make my own things!

A lot of things are in the works right now but look out for some stuff!(some may never come, but a man can dream)

Books:

A Greek Story of Sex Love and Death - Apollon, Greek theoi of who knows what anymore, even he's lost track, finds himself in a standstill. Be the story of the ancient Greek Apollon and stand with the ideals of Ancient Greece or Be the modern Greek Apollon that everyone but him says is wrong.

Jane Doe - A woman finds herself in the aftermath of the Apocalypse, brought on by the birth of The Horned Tooth King. Apparently, she was born to birth a new world. One problem, she wasn't born a woman.

Comics:

A Not So Greek Story - Just retellings of multiple different stories of Persephone. (Not Just, Minthe, Adonis, or the story of spring)

Core - The Government has many different superhero factions under its belt. They even have one just for looks—The Disabled Hero's League, a group of very functional superheros who tend to have to take saving people into their own hands.

Animations:

The Magnus Archives: Somewhere Else - A six-part animated series exploring the possibilities of where The Archivist and their companion can end up.

Quattuor Duivels - A Slenderman Analog Horror series where all the fanon Slender Family exist.

Podcasts:

Hellside Tales: Things go bump in the night, but what's really behind those bumps? People have been dying left and right in what can only be described as cannibalistic murders. Thankfully, your narrator is here to give all the gorey details.

The Ignostrum Call Center: Welcome new caller representative, we at The Human Safety Division thank you for your service! You've been personally chosen for your expert work done for your country! Your supervisor should have given you your copy of Inaccuracies and How to Spot Them. If you have any questions please ask your supervisor before contacting The Human Safety Division personally. And Remember! Answer with a smile!

[sitp-recs]

do you have any recs where draco is absolutely smitten with harry? i love your blog, thank you for doing an incredible job! <3

Thank you! I do have a few recs with smitten Draco, hope you enjoy:

Two Starts, One Finish by @lqtraintracks (2021, E, 5.4k)

I feel him before I see him. Nobody stands this close to me while I’m playing, and I’m about to turn to tell him so when he says, “You’re a tough bloke to track down,” and then leans against my baby grand.

Lovesick by @corvuscrowned (2022, T, 7.6k)

People keep spiking Auror Harry Potter with love potions. Healer Draco Malfoy keeps having to pick up the pieces.

And Back Again (Where You Belong) by eidheann (2014, E, 16k)

He thought back on their previous handshakes, and smiled faintly at the fact they always seemed to mean so much more to him than they did to Potter.

Whoo Knew? by oceaxe (2016, E, 18k)

Despite having had a crush on his Auror partner for years, Draco's been biding his time and waiting for the perfect opportunity to make his case. But when Harry subscribes to a new wizarding personals service, Draco gets a wake-up call.

The Courting by the Pureblood Who Only Has Five Milligrams of Romantic Intelligence and Thinks He’s Real Smooth by Cibee (2020, T, 19k)

Draco could grab Potter and shove him into a stall before proceeding to suck his soul out of his dick, but secretly, deep down, in the part of Draco that he will never admit to anyone, he is (everyone pauses to shudder) a romantic. Potter is not someone Draco wants a one-off with. Potter is — Draco’s beloved!

Watch The Castles Burn by @moonflower-rose (2021, E, 21k)

Draco Malfoy knows better than to get involved with Harry Potter. If only someone would have reminded him of that six months sooner, then maybe he wouldn't be in quite such a large mess.

Waiting By An Open Door by Femme and noeon (2017, E, 29k)

Draco starts following Potterwatch secretly during the War. He wishes Potter would come save him too. But that sort of thing only happens in fairy tales, and Malfoys don't get fairy tale endings, do they?

The Boy Who Only Lived Twice by lettered (2012, E, 54k)

Harry Potter is an Unspeakable. Draco Malfoy is the wizard who shagged him. Adventure! Intrigue! Secret identities, celebrities, spies! It's all right here, folks.

Finely Drawn Lines by @the-sinking-ship (2022, E, 61k)

Draco doesn’t consider himself an artist (though the dozens of sketchbooks lining his shelves might suggest differently). Yet ever since Potter returned to Hogwarts, accepting a teaching position alongside Draco, his drawings have taken on a rather singular focus.

Tea and No Sympathy by who_la_hoop (2014, E, 70k)

It's Potter's fault, of course, that Draco finds himself trapped in the same twenty-four-hour period, repeating itself over and over again.

The Light More Beautiful by firethesound (2014, E, 81k)

Thirteen years after Draco accepts Potter's help escaping the horror of his sixth year, he returns to England where he makes the unfortunate discovery that Potter is still as obnoxious as ever. And worse, more than a decade overseas hasn't been enough to dim Draco's obsession with him.

Soup-pocalypse and The Great Curry Cataclysm by SquadOfCats (2018, E, 104k)

Eleven years after the war, Draco Malfoy leads a quiet, boring, and perfectly respectable life, thanks very much. Or, at least he does, until a sudden and very unexpected veela awakening causes him to throw soup all over Harry Potter in the middle of the Ministry cafeteria.

Written on the Heart by who_la_hoop (2016, E, 113k)

Unnerved by the attention he’s attracting from everyone – the Slytherins are the least of it, to be fair – and struggling with a raft of changes to Hogwarts itself, Harry wishes he could be happy that one constant remains: Draco Malfoy really fucking hates him.

By the Grace by lettered (2020, T, 140k)

Harry is an Auror instructor. Malfoy wants to be an Auror.

Twist of Fate by Oakstone730 (2011, T, 300k)

Draco asks Harry to help him beat the Imperius curse during 4th year. The lessons turn into more than either expected. A story of redemption and forgiveness. Pairings: HP/DM (Slash) Timeframe: 1994-2002 Goblet to 4 yrs post-DH EWE Rating T for language, high angst, content.

[ashyronfire]

Consequences || Chapter 06: Memories Coursing Through My Veins

Title: 06 - Memories Coursing Through My Veins Rating: M Characters: Grimm, The Pale King Warnings: Disturbing Content, Horror, Gore, Unreliable Narrator, Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Read On Ao3: Beginning || Current Chapter

Summary:

He was silent for too long. Those antennae curled around and angled toward him in interest. “You’ve scratches on your face, stranger.” She held one hand out toward him. “I run a shop nearby with my husband. Come. I’ll help you get cleaned up.”

Author’s Notes: I'm trying to remember if I've ever written Iselda or Cornifer before and I don't think I have, or if I have it was like one or two lines here or there. :sippy:

CHAPTER 06: MEMORIES COURSING THROUGH MY VEINS

There was an eerie chill in the air as the Pale King stared at the tent flap where Grimm departed. From behind it, he could faintly hear accordion music, until that too winked out. There were two beasts in front of the tents, and from a neighboring one, the wyrm could faintly hear the whispering of a female voice. Her words were lost to distance, but did it matter, really? None of them were real. Or, if they still were, it was only a matter of time until the musician playing the song, until the voice in the distance, until the two figures resting curled up together as companions, winked out into nothing.

Flames faded out and left behind ashes. Empty. Hollow. Unfeeling.

Ashes, ashes, ashes.

He brought his upper set of hands up to his face and raked his claws down further, until shell tore beneath them. Something oozed. Cloying sweetness knotted at the back of his throat, strangling breath, but when he looked at the curving chitin, there was no tell-tale orange of infection, no lingering warmth staining ivory with sunlight. Just faintly amber-tinged, clear fluid – hemolymph, then.

Shadows cast on the fabric before him. They stretched and tangled, unnatural forms; one was Grimm’s silhouette until it was not anymore, or perhaps it still was – something formless, something large, something with wings and then total, complete darkness, the scarlet flame extinguished for the night… or for his benefit. A showman that one would always be, after all.

“Do you” —the voice caught the Pale King so off-guard that he nearly lost his balance on the spin to locate the speaker— “intend to wait for him all night? Our Troupe Master rises with the morning sun, but we see little of him once night envelops Dirtmouth.”

She was a tall bug, the one who approached, her antennae twisted back behind her head and twitching at the very tips in interest. She reminded him, strikingly, of one of the Five –

— white armor, stained in infectious orange hemolymph as she was slain upholding her charge to protect his Root; they shared in common a fierce, unwavering love for her, and he knew beyond all shadow of doubt that if nothing else, she would lay down her life not out of duty but out of devotion —

– but she could not have been. Far too much time had passed. Hallownest may yet have stood eternal, but those who would remember Dryya could be counted on one hand, and the thought tore at his heart. She would have killed him, too, if she thought that he meant their Root a threat, and for that, he’d trusted her the most of his knights. The others were loyal to him beyond a shadow of doubt, would follow his instructions unto ruin if need be, but not she. No, Dryya’s loyalty was to Hallownest’s Queen and so was his own.

She was not Dryya. Dryya was long dead, and she’d died to do what she’d always promised.

He was silent for too long. Those antennae curled around and angled toward him in interest. “You’ve scratches on your face, stranger.” She held one hand out toward him. “I run a shop nearby with my husband. Come. I’ll help you get cleaned up.”

Scratches on his face were all that she commented on. Civility was not dead, it seemed. The Pale King followed her, a ghost drawn to the living, each step withering the tiny wisps of grass. She peeked at him periodically as she led the way through the ailing village, disturbingly quiet. His memories of Dirtmouth were poor, having only visited once or twice, but he seemed to recall it being more lively than this, even in the evening hours. Time had stolen the travelers who would come to the town to visit the kingdom below; all that visited now were grave robbers, come to ogle the decaying corpse.

There were so few bugs left standing about. There were so few candles burning in the glass panes, in windows barred shut as though to keep out burglars – or something more sinister.

The stag station was illuminated. The second vessel had done that, he knew. It’d been an avid user of the stags.

There was another building lit, and an elderly bug sitting on a bench beneath a particularly large streetlight. He was looking at one of Grimm’s posters, expression unreadable, and the sight sent a pang of concern through him that he could not suppress.

“Do not trust the Troupe Master,” the Pale King blurted out. His voice was wrong, off, so it did not surprise him when his companion stopped to regard him. She lifted her eyes toward the tents, as though considering. “What he offers is not what he grants. No matter what he may tell you. His is a web of lies, and by the time you recognize that, you are ensnared, tangled, and woven so tightly as to never escape. He is like those of Deepnest, who feast upon you once captive, but without their kindness; peace does not come for those granted his tender mercies. Do not trust him.”  

The female bug chuckled, her head bowing. “They were interesting, at first—but there is something…off about their leader. The little traveler was a frequent visitor and seemed to be friends with them, but they have not returned in some time.” She crossed her arms. “My husband was going to go look for them—they were a frequent patron of his; we are cartographers and I suspect they were an explorer—but that strange bug went down first. And came back with you.” She looked down at him. “I would have thought you friends.”

The traveler. She meant the second vessel and he had not the heart to tell her that it was little more than a reanimated corpse acting on the impulse of the spells that had helped to create it. All vessels were compelled to seek the light, to fulfill their purpose: that was why he’d created them. The vessel did not possess the capacity for friendship.

Did it?

There was something wrong about Grimm’s behavior. He’d seemed very determined to make the wyrm climb, to drag the Pale King through the monuments to his every failure, in a show that had felt malicious.

“No. We are far from friends. As he will be happy to confirm, if you would like to ask him.”

He could not have been friends with the vessel, either. The vessel was following the spells that created it. The vessel was doing as it was told. The vessel—

  —“You could do it, if you had the will. But could you raise your nail once knowing its tragic conception? And knowing yourself?”… —

—was incapable of friendships; it had strict magics holding it in place, binding it to the reasons for its creation. Something was missing; something was off. They could not have been friends. The vessel was not capable of being friends with anyone and yet his own daughter had seen in it something that he himself did not. She’d seen fit to help it, to guide it to the corpse of who he’d once been, to lead it into the Abyss, and it had come out changed, but nothing about its fate had, except for her.

“Hmm,” the female bug said. She’d fallen back into stride, and he instinctively followed her, as had become his new role: led by veritable strangers.

The void had responded to Grimm. The void recognized him with a familiar affection that it did not acknowledge anyone else with. He’d watched the butterfly bargain with it, listened to it repeat his name, a mantra in the thousands of voices that made up that shadow sea, and he’d been unnerved.

The vessels could not have friends.

But the void, that nothingness where everything began and everything ended, that traversed everything in between – life, death, joy, sorrow – recognized and spoke to nightmare.

Fear and death are old friends, his mind supplied. He’d heard that before, but he could not place the location. And yet… it felt… strangely apt.

A building of carved shell and stone loomed in front of him, windows lit by candlelight rather than lumafly, though it did little to reduce the blue cast that the long-stained fossils added to the village. His companion stopped at the door and then turned toward him. “I forgot to introduce myself. My name is Iselda, and my husband is Cornifer. He’ll be eager to meet you,” she explained. “What is your name, stranger?”

His name. He had no name. He hadn’t ever bothered to use one. What need had a god for something so mundane? In the ages past, he’d been called so many things. Hallownest’s Godking. The Pale King. The Wyrm. The Pale Wyrm, by those being specific, who knew of the Battle of the Blackwyrm and had survived to speak of the tale.

Another had called him usurper.

And many others, a cacophony of sound discordant, called him ‘father.’

How he wished that they wouldn’t. They’d learned that word from the eldest among them, and they’d all borrowed it, clinging desperately to the term. It was and wasn’t accurate. He was not their father. He was not its father, either, because it was not alive.

But if it had been truly hollow, truly empty, truly not a living thing, it would never have thought to call him that.

He thought to lie. He’d already lost his composure in front of her, and she no doubt thought him weak for the display of emotion, but in the end… what care had he? He would be returned to the void, to that descending hell, to relive the final moments of those that he’d condemned to agony over and over again – so making a bad impression on a mortal meant little, in the grand scheme of that.

“…I do not have one.”

“Ah.” Iselda looked at him for a long moment, then opened the door. “Well, it is nice to meet you, stranger. We will put something on your jaw, on those scratches, avoid them getting infected. It must hurt.”

His whole body hurt. Not just his jaw, not just the scratches. Where the shell peeled away to expose tissue and blood, arteries tangled over tendons, it ached, and she did not acknowledge it; she did not acknowledge any of the wounds, and he found himself unable to ask why. Fear paralyzed him. He followed Iselda into the shop and was greeted by a weevil peering down from a bunk above their merchandise, watching him with too-wide eyes.

“Ah, you’ve brought a guest! Hello. Oh—you look. You look startlingly familiar,” the other bug—Cornifer, she’d said his name was—offered. The Pale King cast his gaze downward. “I am certain—have we met?”

“No,” the wyrm answered. Iselda motioned with one hand, bidding him sit, and he looked down to avoid meeting the weevil’s gaze. “We have not.”

“He’s injured, Corny. Can you get some antiseptics for us? I’d like to clean the scratches, put some creams over the ones that remain.” She looked him over. “Will you molt out of this?”

“I do not think that a molt would correct this,” the wyrm answered, aloof.

His gaze snared on a compass charm on the shelf behind the counter, and on the numerous scrolls that collected dust on the one beneath it. There were quills and pins, an ink well shiny-black from being freshly filled, and atop the counter, he could make out a crudely drawn map of what appeared to be the Kingdom’s Edge. Cartographers, she’d said. The parchments certainly suggested that was so.

Iselda scoffed. “Don’t be so dramatic. This will heal just fine,” she scolded.

“She does so disdain the theatrics over injuries,” Cornifer offered, climbing down from the bunk. “She is right though, my beautiful Iselda. Those are surface level nicks. It might not even take a molt to get rid of them.”

Surface level nicks.

“…might I trouble you for a mirror?” the Pale King asked. Cornifer stopped, then picked up a small charm from on top of the counter and handed it to him. The weevil distracted himself with looking for further supplies, while the wyrm opened the charm and was presented with –

With his face.

Unharmed. Unmarred.

He moved the mirror back and forth, nausea rising as a storm within his chest, tightening the muscles beneath until every single part of him felt as though it was made of lead. He was sinking beneath the feeling of being crushed. His jaw was darkening with hemolymph pooling under the shell from where he’d been kicked and there were little angry lines from the work of his own claws, but the rest of him was –

His wings were intact. His shell was intact. There was no sign of infection, nor any of decay. He looked as he ever had, the pristine picture of ivory light, pulsing with faint luminescence, and as he stared, he heard it –

Whispers from around him, the thoughts of the villages. Iselda, wondering if he was okay, and what had been done to him. Cornifer attempting to identify who he was, and why he looked so very familiar—the weevil was perilously close to landing on that explanation; his mind returned, time and again, to what he thought of as the Ancient Basin, but he could not summon up the image of the fountain to fill in the gaps. Further still, he heard thoughts like a melody that burned to listen to: how prettily shadows and flames danced together, and closer, a familiar wrongness drowning in fear.

One of Grimm’s Troupe had figured out that what he’d bargained for was a higher price than what he’d received.

But he hadn’t been able to hear thoughts. He’d lost that power.

Hadn’t he?

He’d been rotting.

Hadn’t he?

“Hold still now,” Iselda offered, jarring his thoughts. Cornifer had returned and given her some supplies and was looking at him with the same silent intensity.

The second Iselda touched him, the overwhelming sense of worry that washed over him chased his own anxieties away. Pride had him wanting to recoil, to growl, to bite: I need not your aid, want not your help. Your pity is wasted on one such as me, he would argue. He did not. He held very still, focusing to keep the soul that illuminated him in perpetual glow in check. But he loathed physical contact and her worry drowned out all of his own emotions, left him adrift in a sea of the unfamiliar and unwelcome.

And Iselda noticed none of it. She dabbed his face with little cloths, cleaning the scratches with next to no delicacy. Hers were a warrior’s hands. He envisioned her caring for her own wounds on travels through the treacherous wastes, with no need to be kind, no need to be gentle, and certainly no need to keep in mind that the very blood she was handling might be dangerous. But his… might have been.

He could not bring himself to ask her to stop.

The last person to touch him with such kindness was his Root. The retainers were not allowed and at the end, he hadn’t let them into his throne room. He’d died alone.

He’d died alone.

He’d died –

Nothing in the void ever really died, though. Not him. Not his children, ever. He’d underestimated that terrible force and what it gotten him? What had playing at creation earned him in the end? Pain for himself. Pain for his loved ones. And a Hallownest that was dead but could not die.

“You must be more careful,” Iselda scolded. Her mind bubbled with wondering what Grimm had done to him, to cause him to inflict harm on himself. Immediately she held the nightmare butterfly accountable and his worries that she might have been one to fall into the trap of despair dissipated; this bug was strong enough to resist the song of the Nightmare Troupe. Her husband was, too, though she worried that he was too friendly, and the Pale King could hear that, too. But Cornifer, while intrigued about their guests, had an iron will and sense of adventure. He did not long to escape death. He longed to understand the world around him.

There was beauty, wonder, in that feeling.

Was it Grimm’s doing, the rotting he’d felt, had seen? Was he the reason that whenever the wyrm stretched his wings, there were still phantom aches? Had he thought to punish him somehow, with images of what he thought was worthy of his crimes?

He could not hear Grimm.

He could hear his Troupe members. He could hear a familiar mind, in the nearby shops, a voice long ago that should have been dead and yet somehow lived—the nailsage, Sly. He could hear the stag below, waiting for the wanderer’s return. He could hear Iselda, he could hear Cornifer. He could hear another voice, loud and incoherent, full of anguish and sorrow—there was a female bug in one of the houses, distressed at her missing knight—but not Grimm.

The astringent fluid on the end of Iselda’s rag burned, though. His shell ached, recoiling from the tenderness. She finished wiping off and then swiped on some kind of thicker cream that was vibrantly green.

“There. We will get you something cool to rest on your jaw,” she finished.

“Do you have somewhere to stay, stranger?” Cornifer did not wait for a response. “You can sleep on our floor. It’s not the most comfortable of beds, but it’s better than being out in the elements. It’s safe. Iselda’s just about the most dangerous person left in town.”

The weevil cast his wife a pleasant smile that she did not respond to.

He was wrong, but the Pale King did not feel as though arguing further about the nature of the nightmare god in the tents was conducive.

He settled instead for saying, “Your hospitality is kind. We appreciate your generosity.” The ‘we’ drew lingering stares from the couple, the wyrm realized, so he quickly amended, “Thank you. I do not… have other accommodations.”

Cornifer nodded at him, then went to retrieve blankets. Iselda was staring at him and he could hear her discomfort, her disapproval: she was fine with tending to his wounds, but letting him sleep in their home was another matter entirely. He wanted to tell her that he posed little threat in his current state, but natural bugs would not have known the source of her worry.

“I would rather not intrude,” the Pale King settled on. “But if you would be willing, I would find a blanket most amenable for using the bench outside.”

The relief that washed over Iselda was near palpable. Cornifer offered him a woven silk thing, tattered from age and obviously well-loved. The weevil turned his head, adjusting his glasses. “Oh? Well, the little wanderer always found that bench particularly comfortable, so you probably will too. Good luck then, stranger.”

“Thank you…again.” He took the blankets and handed back the mirror. “Sleep will do me worlds of good. It is… heartening. To know that Hallownest yet has good people.”

Iselda folded her hands and leaned on the counter, watching him depart. He could feel her apprehension as he left, and though he couldn’t hear her words out loud, her thoughts echoed them clearly enough: “Cornifer, you are half-mad. He is a stranger. You would invite him to sleep in our home? You do not know what kind of danger he might pose to us – to you!”  

Cornifer lapsed into apologies that drowned out the further that the Pale King drifted from their shop, and when he approached the bench, the elderly bug had abandoned it; he was left by himself. He climbed onto it and wrapped the old blanket around his wings, slowly lying down onto his side, and exhaled.

Sleep might help. Sleep might also make it worse. He knew not what to expect.

But as he lay drifting into unconsciousness, he could make out clear scarlet in the distance and long, tapering white horns. He could make out shambling, could hear the sound of a needle dragging across the ground, and the smell of infection was heavy in his throat and his mouth. Each step the figure took was shuddering, cracking chitin and shell, sickly pus dripping from shell down to the ground with wet little plip-plop-plips.

It couldn’t be her. She was sealed within the Temple of the Black Egg. It could not be her.

But he pulled the blanket up over his face to drown out the sight of it nevertheless, and he was certain that he felt claws ghost over his shoulder. His heart thudded in his chest, the rapid beating of a prey animal faced with a hungry predator. He hissed, deafeningly loud in the quiet of the town.

“It was not supposed to be you,” he told his daughter’s ghost. “It was never supposed to be you. Why did you go inside?”

She did not answer, because she was not there, but he knew the reason without hearing it given voice.

She’d gone inside because she wanted a better future. She’d gone inside because she needed to believe that an alternative path was possible, a path that saved her kingdom and the siblings that she’d been told not to love, but could not fully convince herself weren’t alive.

She’d been right and it cost her everything.

And how was he meant to apologize for that?