#horror nots

[buff-muffin]

I genuinely can’t stop thinking about the sheer body horror that is Luffy’s ability to to turn OTHER PEOPLE into rubber. And we know while in gear 5 he can switch this off at will. In the kaido fight he’s he rips the ground up like it’s paper, uses it like a trampoline to stop an attack and after it’s back to be solid rock in a half pent shape. And we see when Kaido eat him no just dose limbs and his face poking out if kaido’s stomach but also he reaches his hands THROUGH KAIDO’S EYES. Like. Nothing is stopping him from bending and breaking bones of someone and they don’t even feel pain put into a rubber form. Only for him to TURN YOU BACK

There is a criminal lack of body horror when it comes to gear 5 and I am DISAPPOINTED >:(

[nia-inkognito]

blooming from the skull's sutures

inspo: the forget-me-nots scene in Mayfly in Milk

[onetiredwitch]

You smell of dead flowers (vent art)🥀🖤💔

Commission Info | Twitter

[reapkusho]

"I'm also just a girl, standing in front of a boy, asking for him to love her."

I WATCHED NOTTING HILL AND GODDAMNIT WHAT THE FUEJNFNEJRHF

[lifewithaview]

Murder Maps (2015) Notting Hill Horror Part 1

S2E4

John Christie brought death to everyone around him. Allowing his terrible crimes to be pinned on another man Christie returned to his home at 10 Rillington Place to carry on the killing.

[thekittenkait]

i hate i hate i hate exam phase

[actual-changeling]

An angel and a demon walk into a bar.

It sounds like the beginning of a joke, one that would have annoyed Crowley greatly before- before. Maybe it would have been mildly amusing, were it not for the fact that it is a pub, not a bar (a mere technicality that somehow still mattered), and it is the first time in seven months that he is looking Aziraphale right in the face.

He chose the place, walked right out of the bookshop and across the street the second Aziraphale looked at him with his stupid purple eyes and opened his mouth. Same table, same drinks. New silence.

A demon leads an angel into a pub so he does not kiss him again.

Less of a joke, more like the beginning of a nightmare he has had every single time he tried to sleep, woken by whispered words either confirming his worst fears or greatest desires; both incite fear, one way or another.

The low table between them is enough of a barrier to prevent a repeat of their last interaction, it has to be, although this time Aziraphale is looking at him with violet-coloured longing and an apology on his lips, no longer pleading, no longer angry. He is asking for forgiveness, and if that isn't a deeply ironic twist of fate.

Before either of them says a single word, Crowley finishes his drink and raises his hand to order another one, clinging to the familiar sting of alcohol in his throat to burn away the questions lingering on his tongue.

An angel followed a demon into a pub because he loves him.

Aziraphale wishes he could tell himself Crowley looks like he did seven months ago, that he hasn't changed, but he is done lying to himself, to either of them. Behind his shades, dark, darker if that is even possible, he can feel his golden gaze heavy on his face, familiar and the answer to an empty longing in his chest.

His drink goes untouched as Crowley downs one, then another, and it is after the third that he finally begins to talk.

"What do you want?"

Bitter, sharp, spit at his feet with an anger he expected and yet doesn't know how to react to. Underneath it is pain—more pain than any being should ever have to experience—and instead of trying to carry some of it for him, he only added to it.

"I want to apologise."

"Fine." Crowley shoves his empty glass away and gets up. "I don't forgive you."

Reflexively, Aziraphale reaches out and curls his fingers around his wrist when Crowley tries to walk past him, blinking up at him with eyes the colour of dying Myosotis.

Forget-me-nots.

They both freeze, the point of contact a crack in the walls they have spent centuries building and seven months rebuilding, and he knows he has made a mistake immediately.

Crowley stares at him, still as stone, until he suddenly rips his arm out of his grasp, almost cradling it against his chest. With dawning horror, Aziraphale realises he is shaking, tremors running through him like waves breaking apart on a rocky shore.

"Don't you dare touch me." Panic, not anger. Pure, unfiltered panic blooming beside a mountain of fear that could outlast an eternity.

"I-" He doesn't know what he wants to say, what he is trying to say, what he needs to say to make him stay. Oh, the irony of it all.

Crowley leaves the pub, and the Supreme Archangel stays behind.

Not a demon anymore, not technically, he is done with sides, and deeds, and choices; he never makes the right ones anyway. His wrist hurts with the ghost of a kiss, and he cannot get the glint of purple where summer sky blue should be out of his head. 

The Bentley is waiting for him, providing an escape from the noise, the people, him.

Apologies instead of I'm coming back.

A sickening aura of holiness tinged with the burn of ozone instead of books and dust and soft, silly angel.

Seven months of waiting, of pleading with God, of cursing Her, cursing him, cursing the entire fucking world for taking and taking and taking from him without pause, without even a fragment of mercy.

For this.

An angel returns to heaven. Crowley curses the stars and cries.

[itsyapeepkiri]

Hey @deerspherestudios!!! I finally finished the drawing!!!!! It only took 20 hours... but I hope you like it!!

This is based on Day 1, ending 1 of Mushroom Oasis, so spoilers if you don't know about it.

I'll add tags, but TW for death, bone, decomposition, decay (both human and animal), blood if you squint, body horror (???). Also, this will break your heart, so sorry, but the art gods demand tears today.

TWs UNDER CUT. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.

Some tid bits about this project in no particularly order:

- I started this cause I thought about what it would look like if Mychael had found MC a little bit sooner (than the few weeks that it took for the body to decompose). Plus, I wanted to brush up on my anatomy skills.

- The trees were based on the image of in deerspherestudios's answer to an ask about Mychael's vision, specifically the 'bottom eyes closed' one.

- The cat is an orange tabby cause I thought it goes nice with canon green collar. The MC is based on deerspherestudios actual MC ref sheet. Mychael is deerspherestudios whole-heartedly, but I did use the outdoor outfit we see him in in the 2nd day.

- I would image that MC's and Mychael's bags are just off the page, but I just forgot to add them.

- The tree 2nd from the right was not supposed to be there. Or at least I don't think it was. I don't know how that tree got there, I swear. 😅

- My 1st hour, which ended up being a failed attempt, was based on my sleeping sibling. Then, when they woke up and took a look at my work, they mentioned that the hand was as big as the entire chest somehow. That's when I said screw it, tried to find some reference images, and ended up spending the next 1 and a half hours on a 3-D model website trying to force the pre-made models to bend to my will. After that, it went pretty smoothly. *cries in hating perspective*

- I used BiC Mark it permanent markers, an ultra fine point red Sharpie, a Sakura Pigma Micron 005 pen, some Prismacolor Premier colored pencils for details, and a random school issued yellow pencil and pink eraser to make this.

- You can't really see it, but the flowers that Mychael is holding are forget-me-nots, as a reference to the field he would have taken MC to on the 2nd day. They are also in the rough shape of a broken heart. 💔

- On that note, the mushrooms coming out of MC's eye are also shaped like a heart.

- And yes, our soft boi is crying... 😢

[starryylies]

Simon Riley’s masterlist

ꕤ⋆ ₊ ﾟ ☽ * ₊ ⋆ꕤ

STAR-

✰ Simon with reader who’s insecure about her acne

✰ Simon and hyperfem! reader who’s interests are completely different from her personality

✰ The thought of Simon cumming in his pants when he sees you humping his thigh has me on a chokehold.

✰ Simon who comes home from deployment only to see you reading smut and then continues to eat you out like a man starved.

✰ Simon who makes you ride his beefy abs after he comes home is so hot

✰ The thought of simon (1)

✰ Simon who jacks off to your picture when he’s deployed is so hot

✰ Tying a bow on Sisi’s cock :3

✰ Simon who grinds your pillow while you’re gone cuz he misses you so much

✰ Giving Simon a handjob after he comes back so pathetic and needy from his deployment

✰ Simon who gets all whiny and desperate when you give him head

✰ Simon eating you out with his mask on cuz he’s a nasty ol’ degenerate

✰ Simon: before you and after you

✰ Simon: before you and after you - good ending

✰ dad! Simon picking up his daughter from school

✰ older bf! Simon who stays up with you as you study

✰ Loving Simon

✰ virgin! Simon eating you out

ASKS

✩ Love me nots?

✩ TF141 + graves and könig with a super famous s/o

✩ Simon with an emo girlfriend

✩ Simon getting jealous

✩ TF-141 with touch starved reader

✩ Being Simon’s obedient lil’ doll

✩ simon n Gaz watching a horror movie with s/o

✩ Si taking care of you after you get a piercing

✩ Simon punishing you in the bathroom

✩ Simon giving you a book bouquet

✩ Virgin! Simon being desperate.

✩ Slow dancing with Simon

✩ Simon dealing with your ex

✩ Riding Simon

✩ Gentle and somft sex with Simon

✩ Simon having bby fever

✩ Bby dad simon

✩ Simon Riley with a gentle s/o

✩ Shy! Simon asking out reader

WITH OTHER MEMBERS

ꕤ Tf-141 and Roblox.

ꕤ TF141 + graves and könig with a super famous s/o

ꕤ What the cod men call ‘boobs’

ꕤ TF-141 with touch starved reader

ꕤ Simon n Gaz watching a horror movie with s/o

[brokehorrorfan]

6 Things I Learned from the Lisa Frankenstein Commentary

We don’t get movies like Lisa Franeknstein often, which is a shame because it’s endlessly charming yet delightfully twisted. While it disappointed at the box office, it has "cult classic" written all over it.

The coming-of-age horror-comedy is out today on Blu-ray and DVD. Among the special features is an audio commentary by Zelda Williams. Here are 6 things I learned…

1. Catch Me If You Can inspired the opening credit sequence.

The opening credit sequence, which briefly depicts the Creature's love story from his previous life in the style of Victorian shadow box art, was inspired by Catch Me If You Can.

"We wanted to do something interesting with the credits in this bit. I was really inspired by Catch Me If You Can, which I thought the opening credits were particularly interesting and helped establish the story before we ever got to it. And because Creature doesn't speak this whole movie, I wanted an opportunity to show what his life would have been like."

2. The film was originally intended to be rated R.

Although Lisa Frankenstein pushes the PG-13 rating as far as it can go, it was originally intended to be a hard R. Williams cites the party scene, in which Lisa originally smoked a laced joint rather than drinking a PCP cocktail, as a difficult revision.

"This is where stuff got a little complicated when we were going from R-rated to PG-13. Originally there was a coated joint they were passing around. This is one of the only scenes that I'm not sure I'm as fond of in comparison to the joint stuff. Most of the rest of the changes were fine, but this one I find very strange. It's just a very different reaction and interaction than what used to be there. However, these are the things that happen when making a movie."

3. Creature is an homage to Day of the Dead's Bub.

Not only Lisa is seen watching George A. Romero's Day of the Dead in the film, but the Creature is an homage to its iconic zombie, Bub.

"Creature for me is definitely an homage to Buster Keaton, but he's also an homage to the zombie you just saw on screen, Bub, who was in Day of the Dead, a Romero movie that I'm very fond of. It was an incredibly emotive and a very intelligent zombie and ended up getting revenge against the asshole in the movie. It was one of my favorite monsters ever made, so when I could put that on screen during the movie, it made me very happy."

4. Zelda hid a tribute to her father, Robin Williams.

Williams is the daughter of Robin Williams, and she included his 1983 comedy album, Throbbing Python of Love, among the records scattered on the floor in Lisa's living room.

"Oh, there's Dad! We used one of Dad's vinyl albums because we had to scatter some across the floor." She refers to it as "a little, mini Easter Egg for me."

5. The police officers are named after John Waters.

The police officers in the film are Officer John (played by Walker Babington) and Officer Waters (Sylvia Grace Crim) — named on a whim in honor of cult filmmaker, John Waters.

"They asked me to name the cops, because obviously they needed to have name tags, so I named them Officer John and Officer Waters." She thought no one would notice since they're so small, but a viewer pointed it out at a test screening.

6. The film is sprinkled with movie references.

Williams wore her influences on her sleeve with her directorial debut, and she pointed out several references on the commentary:

A Trip to the Moon (clip featured in Lisa's surreal dream sequence)

The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari (stylistic inspiration on the dream sequence)

Weird Science (the party scene)

Suspiria (red lighting during drug sequence)

My Boyfriend's Back (camera shot from inside a grave looking up at characters)

Kill Bill (weapon point-of-view shot)

E.T. (a boy on a bike — played by Diablo Cody's son — at the end)

Notting Hill (reading together on a bench at the end)

Lisa Frankenstein is available now on Blu-ray, DVD, and Digital via Universal.

[tofumiarchives]

┊PASILYO┊˚✧

┊ONE SHOT┊DAZAI OSAMU X GN!READER┊

words: 1,941

unrequested

additional/warnings: ooc (?), cringe, nausea, mentions of throwing up (light), minor swearing typical Dazai suicide mentions (light), public display of affection, and uhh kising

Happy birthday to my glorious princess, y'all 🗣️‼️

Rays of sunshine outlined the furniture of the Armed Detective Agency. Dazai was at his desk, folding origami when he was supposed to be doing a report. It was one of those quieter days in the office, a rare day where there weren’t many cases to finish.

A buzz from his pocket. Dazai checked the notification, reading a message from none other than you.

|[Nickname]: sneak outside 🙏|

And they say he’s a bad influence…

———

Standing outside the building, you wait for him. It was the perfect weather, the sun decided to be warm—and not in the way where it’s painfully hot to the point that just a short walk would leave someone sweating.

“[Name]!” you easily spot the familiar caramel coat through the small crowd, Dazai happily escaping work to join you. “I got your message,” he remarked, walking until he’s right next to you.

“Happy birthday,”

A beautiful bouquet of flowers entered his field of view, forget-me-nots wrapped in a beautiful light blue. A silk white ribbon tied the thing together, a gift looking alike to the summer sky.

What’s next was a pretty sight, flushed cheeks and a surprised detective. Dazai couldn’t help but go speechless, not one to be used to affection. You almost wanted to tease him about it, but decided not to, showing a twinge of mercy upon the man.

“Hey… Earth to Osamu?” he snapped out of his daze, feeling you tug on his sleeve.

“Ah– uhm,” he makes a poor attempt to cover his embarrassing reaction, covering his face with a hand. It was fun to make him flustered, a feeling you rarely see him have. “Thank you…?”

You scoff at that dry reply, placing the bouquet on his hands before tugging his sleeve again, starting to pull him somewhere. “Come on, I’m spoiling you today, so we better start early if you wanna make the most of it.”

Dazai followed after you, letting you drag him on. It took a while, but he came back to his senses, a soft expression gracing his face at your words. “Really?” he asked, almost tauntingly as he tried to get a specific answer out from you.

“Yeah, yeah,” you answered, walking slower so that you’re side by side. “Whatever you want,” you say, looking at the pathway ahead as you barely conceal the smile on your lips.

“Whatever I want?” a cheeky grin. “Even a double suic–?”

“Anything but that,” you cut him off, turning your head just to see him laughing softly, slightly covering his face with the blue flowers.

The soft appearance of genuine happiness is a great look on your lover.

———

“Let’s try that one again!”

The sheer look of horror on your face was picture worthy. Dazai decided that the perfect way to spend his birthday was to try the roller coasters having motion sickness written all over it. “God, no.”

Sure, you did suggest going to the amusement park, but these aren’t the rides you expected to go to. Dazai was milking everything out of this opportunity, trying out every single attraction in the park but the calm ones.

How many times have you gone to the same roller coaster, now? Thrice? Four times? That drop still gets you. “How the fuck are you not even dizzy…?” you ask, sitting down on a bench to collect yourself

Dazai was laughing at your predicament, earning a glare from you. “Fine, fine, we’ll take a break from the rides,” finally some mercy on your nauseous self.

You sigh, before hunching over slowly, seeing black in the corners of your vision. “Fuck, I think I’m throwing up.” a pat on your back, but the brunet’s not very discreet giggles made it feel like it didn’t help at all.

Luckily, you didn’t start vomiting. You ended up buying him lunch despite his claims of not being hungry, making him sit down on a shaded table to eat. The park had a few food stalls around, so you two had plenty of choices to pick from.

His eyes scanned the selection of food stalls before his gaze landed on one. He perks up a little, tugging on your hand to get your attention. “Hey, let’s get takoyaki.”

You nodded, holding his hand as you went to the food stall, buying him the food he wanted before buying food for yourself. Dazai of course just had to steal your food, taking bits and bites here and there. You didn’t mind… mostly.

“... If you’re gonna end up eating my fries anyway, why didn’t you just buy some?” you ask, as he stole another bite with a shrug. You could only brush it off, wanting to get it over with so you could make most of your time here.

“Because stealing yours tastes better,” he replied, a terrible excuse. A mischievous glint can be seen shining in his brown eyes as his fingers stole another one, not even hiding it at this point now that you pointed it out.

You gave a sigh of defeat, letting him steal as much food as he desires. It was a quick snack break, before you two continued your little birthday celebration, so you just let it pass.

The sun was already shining right above you when you finally got back on your feet, fully recovered to try more attractions. His hand had found yours, as you looked for more things to try out. Dazai’s eyes found themselves following the path of the ferris wheel, the sight of it catching his eye.

Slow, scenic, peaceful—the complete opposite of the previous rides you two have gone on. A grin appeared on Dazai’s face, and he tugged on your hand, pulling you towards the entrance to the ride. “Let’s go on that one,” he says, a hint of eagerness in his voice.

You couldn't help but let out a breath of relief, seeing that he finally chose a calmer ride. The procedure to enter was short, buying a ticket, going in line, before entering the ride.

The gondola was simple, the sleek white car fitting the both of you on one side perfectly. It was slow and gentle, moving bit by bit as it got turned higher into the sky. “Much better than those adrenaline-fuelling ones, huh?” he mentioned, looking at you through his peripherals.

“Yes, actually. At least we can actually converse instead of screaming our lungs out,” you retort, turning from looking out the large windows to him, meeting his gaze with your own.

Dazai held in the laugh settling in his throat, shamelessly seeking your hand to hold again. He loved the contact. “You’re the one screaming out of fear, though,” he pointed out, pulling himself closer to you.

You roll your eyes, allowing him to be as close as he wants—as close as he needs. It took a while, but your capsule eventually reached the top of the circle, getting the highest view.

The brunet decided that you were a headrest at the moment, leaning his head on you before turning to the window on his side, slowly falling silent.

This was what you hoped you could distract him from. That faraway look was in his brown eyes as he looked at something long gone. It was another year. Another year without him, another year he'll slowly grow older than he could ever get.

Another year, and this time, he'll remember him longer than he's known him.

The view outside the windows was breathtakingly beautiful. Yokohama in clear view to both of you. From high-rising buildings to the crystal lake near the park, everything was graced with the warm afternoon light. Yet those brown eyes couldn't find the same warmth you could.

That solemn longing was a look you didn't want to see him make today. You wished his mind wouldn't have to think like this just for a day. Just for a moment. Just for now.

So, you nudge his leg with yours, earning his attention. “You wanna get crab later?” you ask when he turned to look at you, hands on his to hold. You'll distract him for as long as needed. You'll keep him away from those thoughts and bring the warmth he needed on a day he would otherwise hate.

Dazai turned around, snapping out of his train of thought at hearing your question. A smile stretched on his face, grip lightly tightening on your hand. “Of course the answer is yes,” he answered.

At least he doesn't look so solemn now. You subconsciously bring a hand up, brushing a strand of his dark brown hair behind his ear, your touch lingering for a moment longer than necessary. Way longer, actually.

“...touchy today, hm?” he teased, a cover up to him growing flustered under your affection. “What, can't keep your hands to yourself?”

“Don’t even start,” you reply with a threatening edge. Dazai raised his hand in surrender, keeping his silence with a cheeky smirk.

———

Crisp wind blew on your hair, you closed the door behind you in a rush. “Slow down, we just ran up a bunch of stairs–” you gasp out, out of breath as Dazai dragged you to a rooftop. The Agency building's rooftop.

The brunet only chuckled at your reaction, stopping to let you catch your breath. “Alright, alright! We're here anyway.”

You take a deep breath in, the air finally getting in your lungs properly. “We’re here early, you didn't have to– you did not have to drag me and run all the way up,” you groan, wheezing in suffering.

The sun was almost setting, hanging just above the horizon. You two wanted to catch the sunset, deciding that this is the best spot to watch as it settles down the city skyline.

Dazai held your hand, tugging you along to the edge of the building. “This would be a romantic time to die,” *he remarked, making you deadpan.

“Nuh uh,” you retorted, looking at his steps just a little more cautiously in case he decided to swan dive over the edge. “Would be a great time to watch the sunset though.”

As you said that, Dazai looked up, catching the way the skies were painted in pink and orange hues. It was an ethereal scene—one that should be painted to preserve.

You glance to the man beside you, seeing him gaze off into the sunset. It wasn't a lie that he was pretty, with how the sun outlined every feature on his face, basking him in a warm light.

“You’re staring,” he hummed, brown eyes glancing at you, already prepared to send a barrage of teases for catching you in the act.

Confessing you were was the only way out, then. You let out a scoff, the sound half a chuckle. “Yeah,” he turned to you, the sun leaving its last trails of warmth before letting the moon reign in the sky. “Happy birthday.”

Dazai smiled, a soft look on him. “Shouldn’t I get a present?” he asked, leaning towards you with a hint of what he wants. The brunet reached for your hand, pulling them to cup his cheeks.

A fleeting kiss, before another, dragging him closer to press your lips on his. You could feel how the warmth spreads to his face under your touch, feel how he smiles against each kiss.

You hear him giggle, leaning back just enough to speak, still holding his face. “More?”

“More,” he nodded, feeling giddy with each touch. Just for the moment, he felt that life was worth living. You pull him closer, resting your forehead on his.

“Whatever you want.”

divider credit: @/cafekitsune

[nikethestatue]

Salted Cashews

Despite all the ickiness in this fandom, my Elain Archeron Week continues.

This little fic was based on the quiz that is found on SJM's website.

Happy Summer Solstice!

June was in full bloom across Velaris. The city was always a thing of beauty, but springtime and early summer were especially lovely. The sea took on a special cerulean colour and all the parks and boulevards were clad in blooming flowers and trees of every hue and blossom.

The River Estate of the High Lord and High Lady of Night Court was swathed in blue and white. These were the colours that Elain Archeron had decided on for the garden’s colour palette. There were fat, shaggy hydrangeas of every shade of white and blue, beds of violets, rows of forget-me-nots, tall stalks of grape hyacinth, a smattering of bluebells, and plenty of white and cream peonies. She had taken special care to plant blue wisteria around one side of the estate, and jacaranda trees had been delivered from Day Court and replanted here. 

Currently though, all the beauty around her was lost on Elain. She was, what one might call, hate gardening. Whether that was a real thing or not, Elain didn’t care. She was hot, the soil was giving her pushback, her knuckles were skinned, something was digging into her knee and her dress was sticking to her back. Also, she was giving real serious consideration to just cutting off her hair and going with a nice, short haircut. The heap that was currently baking her head was enraging her. Even in a tight braid, the hair was still hot and uncomfortable.

She was almost elbow deep in the ground, sweating and cursing under her breath, when finally there was some relief from the sun. A cloud covered the blazing rays and offered a bit of shade. Elain sighed, wiped her brow and continued to dig and pull. 

It was Summer Solstice and she wished that there was something interesting and entertaining happening in the city today, but there were only smaller, localised celebrations happening, and she didn’t want to go alone anyway.

“Cauldron damn it to Hel!” she groaned, when she pulled on a weed, but it didn’t budge, and instead, she rolled back on her ass and jerked like a fish.

To her utter horror, she heard a hearty snort, followed by a chuckle.

She scrambled to her hands and knees and looked up. 

Azriel stood above her, arms folded on his broad chest. He was dressed in a simple shirt and light jacket, instead of his leathers. A day at the office then…She already knew what he typically wore, depending on what he had planned for the day. If the day demanded a lot of flying, he usually dressed in his leathers. If he spent most of the day with the High Lord or in Velaris, dealing with his informants, then he typically dressed in a simple tunic, or a shirt and a jacket. And if, by some miracle, he ever had a day off, he just wore a black, knit shirt. Elain wouldn't admit it, but those shirts were her favourite–the way they draped over his immense, muscular form, subtly emphasising every curve of his biceps and his shoulders, not to mention the perfect washboard stomach that he possessed so casually. 

Which brought Elain to her current reality–she was on her hands and knees, her breasts straining the neck of her dress, her ass up in the air. Like she was ripe and ready for mating. Azriel was watching her with a smirk, his massive wing stretched out and blocking the sun.

“It was…you…you,” she muttered, embarrassed. 

“Gave you a bit of shade? Yes,” he confirmed.

“How long have you been standing here?”

He smiled.

“A while.”

Gods. He was standing there, watching her for however long, shading her from the sun.

“Well, you shouldn’t do that!” she said primly.

“Oh?” he cocked his head, “which part? The shading? The standing? The watching?”

“All of it!” she exclaimed, blushing like a strawberry. “You...you shouldn't sneak up on people.”

“Spymaster, remember? It’s kind of my job. To sneak up on people.”

“Well…well, you shouldn’t! And also, you shouldn’t use your wing like that,” she scolded him.

“Why not?”

“Because it can burn!” she said firmly.

“And you are such a wing expert?”

“I know enough. You shouldn’t sneak up on unsuspecting people.”

“Did you not enjoy a bit of a cool down?”

“Maybe. But that’s not the point!” she insisted.

She didn’t like being alone with him. It confused her.

He said that they were a mistake.

Which was his right, of course.

But then he shouldn't have been chasing after her in his own way. He shouldn't be here right now, shading her from the sun and watching her.

He was always watching her. She knew it. She could feel his eyes on her, even when she was in the garden, or in the kitchen. Once, she noticed a blob of shadowed darkness in the corner of the kitchen. She wouldn’t have noticed it, if it weren’t for that blob reminding her of something. She had continued shelling peas, and then sliced the green beans, and went to fetch basil from the garden. When she returned, the blob was still there. It hadn’t moved. And just when she began telling herself that it was nothing more than shadow play, and nothing to worry about, she remembered. In the recess of her mind, an image came to her–a memory–of the same dark shadowy blob keeping vigil in her room, right after she was Made. Typically, only Nesta would come and visit her. Sometimes the twins, who became her friends, because they brought food. But no one else really visited her in those miserable weeks. No one. But she’d noticed the darkness in the corner. And for some reason, when it had gathered there, and stayed, ever watchful, she didn’t feel quite so lonely.

Azriel was watching her face and then commented, “Seems like something just dawned on you.”

She didn’t answer, shocked by her realisation. Was it true? Did he hide himself within his shadows and did he watch her? Has been watching her since day one?

“What might it be?” he pondered.

“Nothing!” 

He made a sound, but didn’t push. Instead, he extended his hand to her.

“Not that I mind watching her like that,” he teased and she coloured even further at the remark. “But I think that you should probably get up, lest someone gets the wrong idea.”

She was scandalised by his implication, but took his hand and he lifted her with alarming ease. 

“You sure you don’t want to tell me what it was that you had suddenly realised?” he probed.

She shrugged impudently and said, “no, not at all!”

“Shame,” he murmured to himself. 

She smoothed her dress on her hips and legs and muttered nervously, “I have to go…go see about dinner.”

“Well then,” he announced jovially, “then we are going in the same direction.”

His broad warm hand lay on the small of her back and she had no other choice but to walk next to him. 

“Do you, by any chance, keep a journal?” he asked suddenly.

“Umm, no. I don’t. Why do you ask?”

“If you did,” he said with chilling honesty, “I would’ve wanted to read it.”

Her head whipped to him and she asked, shocked, “what?!”

“Yes, I would’ve loved to be a daemati–and believe me, I wouldn’t have been asking anyone for permission to read their thoughts, unlike Rhys–but I am not a daemati. And as much as my shadows provide me with useful information, reading someone’s thoughts must be incredible.”

Elain glared at him in disbelief.

“Wait a minute!” she cried. “That’s horrible! That’s utterly dishonourable too! You cannot read people’s thoughts or their diaries!”

“You can, and you should,” Azriel contradicted her ruthlessly. 

They entered the quiet, cool mansion and walked towards the kitchen. Everyone was out, and it was just the two of them. The twins were probably around somewhere as well, but they didn’t make themselves known.

“See, if I had that information,” he continued nonchalantly, “I would’ve known how often you think of me. What you think. What worries you. What excites you.”

She paused by the cupboard, as she took out two bowls and turned away from him, so he wouldn’t be able to see her face.

“I don’t think about you,” she whispered.

He didn’t say anything for so long, that she thought he’d left. So when she turned around, she was faced with his wide chest and the fact that he was standing almost right next to her.

“Gah,” she gasped.

“We both know that’s a lie, don’t we, Miss Archeron?” he breathed, bowing to speak into her ear.

“No,” she shook her head, breathing heavily. “No it’s not. I…I don’t think about you.”

“Hmmm.”

“I, I need to cook,” she stammered. Despite the coolness of the house, she was feeling very hot.

“Cook then. I will help,” he offered. 

“Umm, you don’t have to.”

“Why not? If I am going to eat, I might as well cook as well. What will you have me do? I am putty in your hands,” he opened his arms widely in invitation.

She sighed dramatically, and then dumped a bunch of cucumbers in front of him and said, “you may slice these. Not with Truth-Teller!” she added quickly.

He chuckled and took a knife, and then began slicing.

She pulled a fresh chicken out of the ice box and placed it in a baking dish, before grabbing a bulb of garlic, some onions, lemons and fresh thyme. 

Glancing discreetly at where he was standing, she noted how precise his slices were, as he ran his knife through the cucumbers with ease.

“You know,” she said suddenly, “I don’t need to read your diary to know everything about you.”

He looked at her in amusement and inquired, “is that so?”

“It is,” she nodded. 

“And what do you know about me?”

“If you listen closely enough, and observe, you can find out everything you need to know,” she said confidently.

“Alright then, indulge me,” he welcomed.

She minced garlic on the chopping board, and said, 

“Fine. Here it goes: You are haunted by your past and cannot reconcile your need for peace with your warrior nature. You cherish the gifts that you receive from some of your friends–and strangely, you like jewellery. You have silver rings and your syphons that you tend to closely, polishing and cleaning them often, you wear leather bracelets and a silver forearm band, and you have a pierced ear. You don’t show it to others often, but sometimes, you wear an earring.”

At her words, Azriel stopped slicing and just listened, his face inscrutable.

She continued, 

“You have a terrible sweet tooth, because you didn’t have sweets when you were a child. However, your favourite snack is salted cashews. What’s more, you like reading people’s diaries, and when you cannot find what their thoughts or motivations are, it frustrates you.”

“Anything else?” he asked, his voice stony.

“Sure,” she nodded. “You are loyal to a fault, but your loyalty battles the need that you have for freedom and independence. It’s a constant struggle. You like to eat. You especially like to eat what I’ve cooked,” she said the last part so quickly, it came out slurred. “And you don’t realise what others value in you the most. And it’s not your bravery, or your acerbic humour, or your shadowsinging abilities,”

“What is it that they value then?”

“Your incredible kindness.”

She finally looked at him. 

His face remained expressionless.

“How did I do?”

“Wrong about everything,” he told her tersely. 

“Oh.”

“Except one thing.”

He got up and laid the knife down.

“I just remembered that I had to be somewhere,” he lied.

She knew it was a lie.

“Alright, thank you for your assistance,” she said simply.

“But I do like eating what you cooked,” he said at last.

Elain watched him, her big brown eyes following his every move.

“I will see you later,” he said and headed for the door.

“Wait!” she called out, and hurried to the cupboard.

He stopped, a slight expression of annoyance on his face.

“I have something for you,” she said, wiping her hands on a towel. The next moment she emerged from the pantry, holding a packet.

She walked over to him and then extended her hand, so he had no choice but to take the packet.

“I know I was wrong about everything, but I still got you this. Happy Solstice.”

He looked at her for a long time.

“Happy Solstice, Elain.”

With that, he turned and walked out of the kitchen.

The moment he was out, he shot into the sky, his breathing heavy. 

She…she saw too much.

Too much.

Once high up in the air, he soared over the roofs of the buildings and then curious, he opened the packet. Inside, he found a bag of salted cashews.

His favourite snack indeed.

[glitter-stained]

I'm always thinking about Jason because fixation so my judgement is biaised because every song I listen to makes me think about at least one of my Jasons, but here are some songs though were definitely written for and about canon Jason Todd, and I will take no criticism (but you are definitely welcome to add your own songs):

-Take me To War, by The Crane Wives

>"But I keep snapping at Goliath hands with all of my tiny might"/ "All of the fire I swallowed, all of the sparks that went down in my guts, I am always burning out"/ "I'll be the sweetest thing to ever scare you"

The Robin -> Red Hood transition is so seamless

-Little Soldiers by the Crane Wives

> "On the broken back of all the words we spared, Like little soldiers in the trenches; It was a march we made towards ruin and despair, But we held hands all the while"

I always rant about how how Jason's character and story is centered around love, this is the song that plays in my head while I'm yapping

-Blue Lips by Regina Spektor

> "He took a step but then felt tired, He said I'll rest a little while; but when he tried to walk again, he wasn't a child"

If you ever wanna be sad about Jason's resurrection, catatonia and stolen childhood, this is the song to listen to

-The Horrors and The Wild by The Amazing Devil

"Think of all the horrors that I promised I'd bring, I promise they'll sing of every Time you passed your fingers through my hair and called me child, Witness me old man I am the Wild"

> If Under The Red Hood has one song it's this one

-The Old Witch Sleep and The Good Man Grace by The Amazing Devil

"There's a fire burning/And I'm learning to be/So much more than my tiredness/ So much more than that old witch sleep wishes/ She kisses my eyelids, and I/Breathe"

> If Red Hood: Lost Days (minus the gross bits) has one song it's this one

-Elsa's song by The Amazing Devil

>"And you'll throw some sage and lillies/ And roses where I'll rot/ Of all the flowers you picked/I knew you would forget/ Forget-me-nots"

idk who Elsa is this is about how Jason was grieved but he wasn't remembered

(Yeah I'm pretty convinced that at least either Madeline Hyland or Joey Batey read Under the Red Hood so many of their songs fit so well I restrained myself to three but there are so many)

-A Burning Hill by Mitski

>"I'm tired of wanting more, I think I'm finally worn/ For you have a way of promising things/ And I've been a forest fire"

Jason admitting loss and giving up on begging Bruce is something that can be so personal actually

-Heaven Knows by The Pretty Reckless

>"Now you're on your knees with your head hung low/ Big Man tell you where to go/ Tell them it's good, tell them okay/Don't do a goddamn thing they say"

Crime Alley united!!! Also, "tell the big guy I said hello" :))) (the God/Batman amalgam in Death in the Family is such an incredible one-liner and works so well for Jason omg)

-For the Departed by Shayfer James

>"Now I must finished what I started/I'll write a symphony for the departed/And I have no time for second chances/ So I survive on bourbon blood and backward glances"

The amount of angst, dramatics and intense devotion to his cause at the cost of his life, the literature references, everything about this song? Jason at his angstiest for sure

-Goodbye by Bo Burnham

> "If I wake up in a house that's full of smoke I'll panic/So call me up and tell me a joke/ When I'm fully irrelevant and totally broken dammit/ Call me up and tell me a joke /Oh shit/ You're really joking at a time like this"

exploded warehouse parallel aside, this song feels like not being able to heal because you're not capable of asking for what you really need, wanting to come back but feeling like you aren't allowed to because it would ruin you or the you that was shaped by other's perception of you and most importantly, begging to matter and to have mattered. So. Jason.

[flootdraws]

You: October 31st! Halloween!

Me, an intellectual: Ruinmas.

AKA, here, have some celebratory art. Can you believe it's the second Ruiniversary? Madness.

Reasons for all the included images under the cut.

Madeleine:

fox, the calling (ruin)

rockrose & thistle, the rockrose and the thistle (horror)

bracken & blossom, blossoms (ruin)

forget me nots, Elsa's song (love run)

(standing) stones, the horror and the wild (horror)

magpies, Madeleine's favourite corvid per Instagram, two for joy

dress inspired by the black chiffon one she wore in Dexys

Joey:

bracken & blossom, blossoms (ruin)

sage, Elsa's song (love run)

crow, Marbles (horror)

(standing) stones, the horror and the wild (horror)

dear heart/deer hart, Joey's name for the fandom (horror)

outfit inspired by the love run bath photoshoot

[mandoriana]

Just some headcanon I have about Edwin Payne.

Edwin had two younger sisters, one called Elvira Payne and the other called Edith Payne, both were twins and were six years old when Edwin died.

(Elvira and Edith Payne)

He also had an older brother named Enrique Foster Payne, who no longer lived with the family.

(Enrique Payne)

Edwin was not close to his older brother, the two were only a few years apart, but Enrique disliked Edwin for being "too fem" or "too beautiful".

Enrique studied at the same boarding school as Edwin and, a year before finishing school, he told the older boys that his brother was a mary ann and that he loved playing with dolls with his sisters.

Neither of Edwin's parents really showed interest in what he did, but his father always praised his intelligence and his mother always praised his politeness, both of which are things that Edwin strived to maintain even after years in hell.

Edwin didn't like people or animals, but there was an orange cat that roamed his house and appeared every night at his window, Edwin fed and looked after the feline, the name he gave the cat was Tom, unfortunately he never saw the animal after he was sent to boarding school.

(Cat Tom)

His mother was called Arabella and his father was called Edgar.

(Arabella and Edgar Payne)

Edwin is autistic, but as he is already dead, some more physical aspects no longer affect him, for example, being sensitive to bright lights or loud noises, feeling discomfort with certain textures…

Edwin admired his mother and sisters' clothes, and always felt embarrassed about it.

Before his sisters were born, Edwin and his mother were closer, they painted pictures together, practiced the piano, went shopping together, even gardened, she treated him as if he were a daughter, as she always wanted to have girls.

Edwin is gay and gender fluid.

His favorite flowers are Forget-Me-Nots, they were his sisters' favorites too.

The only people who suffered from Edwin's death were Elvira and Edith, twins did not understand why his disappearance was an "act of god".

Edwin said terrible things before learning to live in a society completely different from his own. Really bad things that sometimes made Charles stop and look at his friend in horror before explaining how bad what Edwin said was.

Once Edwin understood how evil and prejudiced he to be, he would spend the next few days ashamed of himself and apologizing to any minority he offended with his words.

All the slang he knows is thanks to Charles.

"Handjob", "Manage" and any other current word that refers to sex or libidinous acts are always strange to Edwin, not because he is innocent, just because his only companion for 30 years was Charles and Charles is a defender of the honor of his friend, so he would never say such vulgar obscenities in front of Edwin, mainly because he knows he will be questioned and will have to explain it to him.

Edwin was considered rare and valuable in hell, many demons wanted his soul because he didn't belong there, and this led to Edwin being used as a bargaining chip several times before ending up in the "Doll house".

His notebook was something he took from one of the rooms in the "Doll house" so the pages never run out, and he can always use the notebook even after almost 100 years with it.

His soul is very strong thanks to the amount of pain he suffered in hell, things that would hurt normal ghosts have done nothing to Edwin unless it is a much greater amount.

He is one of the few ghosts capable of using magic, as spells cause a lot of pain since they require excess spiritual energy.

In 1990 Charles got a record player, Edwin taught Charles dance moves and Charles taught him some. When they weren't playing board games for fun, they were dancing.

Explaining to Edwin how Michael Jackson turned white was the hardest thing Charles did in all his afterlife years.

Edwin allowed himself to wear a dress once, then Niko offered to wear a suit, they didn't most it to anyone, but they had fun together in a small parade.

Although they didn't get along well at first, Edwin and Crystal are friends, whenever she has a female problem, like menstrual cramps, he offers to get her cocaine. (She loves it!)

Only Crystal can speak ill of Edwin, she will destroy heaven and earth if anyone says anything about him.

Crystal, Edwin and Niko always have an all-girls party, sometimes Edwin uses his "Niko's Aunt" disguise to pretend to be the mother of one of the girls when they need it, for example, he once used this disguise to talk to a Crystal's teacher who claimed that she was cheating (she was), although he himself didn't approve of Crystal's cheating he made a big show of stating that he would bring down the whole school if the teacher didn't apologize to Crystal and admit that she deserved the A+.

[holybibly]

Divine Rosa  ❢ot8xreader❣ 

❣ Pairing: yandere!otx8 x reader ❣ Genre: Dark Romance, vampire au, angst, horror, yandere au, smut ❣ Summary: The moth always pours itself into the flame; what a pity that in the end it burns out. After the tragic death of her sister, MС tries to find answers to the questions she left behind. This leads her to a gated cottage town known for its luxurious rose gardens. In addition, there are also these mysterious men who manage all the affairs in the city. Too sweet, too helpful, too intrusive, and too in love. ❣ WARNING: only!18+ Themes of death, suicide, severe depression, stalking, blood, yandere behavior. ❣ Disclaimer: I don't support yandere behavior, stalking, or religious imposition. Themes include violence, obsession, possessiveness, and emotional or psychological manipulation. This book is intended solely for entertainment purposes.

English is not my native language, so if you see any mistakes, please let me know.

Published on AO3 like FleurRi

❣ Prologue: Roses scarlet like blood ❣

 Every story has a beginning: a magical, inexplicable moment—an elusive contact between reality and dreams. When thoughts emerge from the edge of consciousness, a stream of colorless letters appears on the parchment of our fate, eventually becoming an event. Life's intersections, fragments of various plots, are continuously repeated, lost, or deliberately forgotten. They are like unwritten melodies; the echo of their angelic voices follows us through life, like the bright tent of a wandering circus that incessantly makes noise. is full of tinsel, and raves with dreams.

  There are millions of them. No. Billions, like the sleeping stars, sway peacefully on the sky-blue wire; their scattered light tells the wayward souls the way in the velvet folds of the night's darkness. These are our memories. Some are dazzlingly bright, as fresh as summer breezes, while others are barely flickering, covered in the marble ashes of time and a diamond crumb of emotion. And they all live so far away and at the same time prohibitively close together, there, in the labyrinth of the underground sky and on the endless roads of the blood rivers, where it is impossible to find them: in our memory.

  Just as a pebble thrown into the ocean sinks into the murky depths, so does memory. Drowning into the viscous muddy depths without a bottom, in that rich and uncharted area that we call “oblivion,” it sinks in time. And few of us have been given the opportunity to preserve living images of memories of the feelings we have ever experienced: to drown in the bittersweet water of sorrow and joy; to fill our consciousness to the brim, like a vessel with golden honey, with the feelings of pain and keen passion, and to die. Die happy. The greatest privilege of all.

  Seconds, minutes, days, and years—colorful fragments of time; sharp crumbs scattered under our feet. Unlike us, those who plunge into eternal sleep, our memories that have insidiously dissolved in ink in our blood will not disappear. They fear death, flee from it, and hide in the thick of the earth that blossoms with fluttering glass, forget-me-nots and drunken petunias that, in their intoxicating happiness, kiss the eyelashes of the blind God. You hear them whisper, “I��ll never forget you…”

  My story begins with an innocent question that I’m sure you’ve heard more than once: “Do you like roses?”

  Once upon a time, I would have answered, "Yes, I love roses." But, as it turns out, all our words are followed by consequences, and small rosy spikes can be much more dangerous than they seem at first glance, just like in the fairy tales that we were told in childhood.   You know, there are things that we might call fatal: people who decide other people’s lives as long as they reach out to them like they're God. And then there are the flowers, which keep the mysteries tenebrous and ancient.   I'm almost a hundred years old, maybe more. I should start my story right now; this is the perfect moment.

  I will tell you about who I once was and who I am now. I will tell you about love, which is akin to obsession, and the death of her faithful friend. I will also tell you about the people, ghosts, or maybe illusions that were around me. They were with me once…   Now, there are others, but they’ll be in my story later. They will come into my life with a chorus of angelic voices; the sound of a heavy autumn downpour, and the pretentious solemnity of death. Yeah, they’ll be there, though, if you think about it, they were always there, from my first breath to my last breath, by my side.   But I’m forgetting what’s important.   I have to tell you about the roses, and only about them.

· · • • • ✤ • • • · ·

Mina's long hair shimmered like luxurious silk under the early morning light. Bloody strands fell in curled doll curls onto her bare shoulders, as if in Baroque paintings. The lush blossoms of white roses woven together in her hair made her look like the ancient Greek goddess of spring.   Her appearance has always been astonishing, blatantly perfect rather than real, but that was sometime in the past. Now she was like a pale ghost of herself, a blurry reflection on a black surface of water on a moonlit night. The only thing that reminded her of her former beauty was her hair, which remained perfectly groomed and scarlet, like blood. Oh yeah, there are still roses.  These flowers… there was something unnatural about them, something otherworldly. Each petal was painfully perfect, as if made of satin. But the flowers were real; they were alive and breathing and too demanding. It seemed that just because they wanted this, Mina could wear them in her hair. It was their choice, not hers.  “Do you like roses, Rosa?” · · • • • ✤ • • • · ·

This is the moment when my life changed forever. If I had known that this innocent question would be the beginning of my end, but can this be called the end? Would my answer have been different?

  I’ve thought about it a thousand times. Over and over again, I played this scene like a broken record, crossed my answer out of the script, wrote a new one, and made comments and footnotes, but…   But the answer was the same. I couldn’t change anything; it was destined. Much later, when I fall asleep in a warm bed, I will feel a gentle kiss on my closed eyelids and hear San’s angelic voice whisper in my ear that fate is never wrong. That they would find me or that I would come to them does not matter; in the end, we would still be together in life and in death. In eternity.

  I’ll come back to that later, I promise. In the meantime, I’ll continue. · · • • • ✤ • • • · ·

“They’re beautiful, Mina, but I don’t like them anymore.”  I sounded terribly rude from the outside, and I could see Mina’s eyes filled with tears, as if I had slapped her.

 “But Rosa!” Mina reached out her pale arms to me. “Look how perfect they are; don’t you care about their beauty? Doesn’t your heart beat faster when you look at them? O Rosa, these flowers are special; they never wilt.” She shook her head, as if confirming her words. “Yeosang gave them to me before I left” Her long, thin fingers reaching for the white rosebuds in her hair. “I want to give you one.” Hooking the flower, Mina gently pulled it out of her curls and stretched it towards me. I didn't have the desire to accept her gift; something in her behavior and her voice caused me anxiety. And there was this name: Yeosang. It wasn’t the first time I heard it, but it was a long time ago, and I still remember that Mina mentioned others with that name: Hongjoong, San, and Mingi. They sounded familiar to me as a song once learned by heart. She pronounced them in a special way: with a gentle intonation and an exciting euphoria. As if it had been repeated countless times at the same completely new to her.  All I could hear was the echo of that song, which came along with those names in the conversation. It was an ominous echo, like an impending, inevitable storm. Mina was still holding out a rose, and I looked at her hands. Arms with a faint web of blue veins that looked like dried stems of faint flowers. For some reason, I came up with the idea of sirens holding out their hands to pirates while their voices led them into the welcome embrace of death. Did they look like Mina’s hands now?

I remember these hands weaving long pearl threads into my hair during festivals. I remember the feeling of intertwined fingers as Mina led me down the dark corridors of my grandmother's old house. I remember them gently wiping my tears when I was rubbing my feet until I bled in ballet class.

I remember the touch of those hands… I know him. These cold fingers that so carefully hold the snow-white flower no longer belong to my sister. Their touch changed, becoming foreign and distant, as did the mysterious land where these perfect, never-fading roses grew.

Didn’t that sound like a fairy tale? Just in our history, there has been no magic mirror, no Queen-Witch whose crown shines like a star, and no apple full of poison, but there is a coffin of shimmering crystal, and a prince that sleeps in it. Of course, there are also roses—thousands of roses.

“Rosa” Mina turned to me again. “Please take them; you will surely love them. Just try to feel them…”

She put a flower in my hands. The drops of nectar froze on the wax petals, and the first rays of the dawn sun made them sparkle like diamonds. “This variety is special.” Her voice sounded soft. “It's called the Deva-Rosa. I want to show you where they grow. It’s so beautiful. I want you to come with me, Rosa. We’ll be there together, you and me.” Mina smiled dazzlingly, but something was wrong with that smile. The once-sensual kiss lips were painfully curved, the corners awfully lifted, like the forever-frozen smile of a Venetian mask, and the warm pink shade was gone.

I was always jealous of her lips. They were so tender, plump, and enticing. All her features attracted attention, but it was her lips that made Mina's beauty unique.

She shone like the sun, easily becoming the center of everyone's attention—a beautiful white swan. The main heroine of the story. 

Then there was me, only a shadow of her perfection—gloomy and pale as the moon, the complete opposite of the burning heat and the sexuality of my sister. Unlike Mina's, my features were not sensual and breathtaking; no, they were old-fashioned, like those of a porcelain doll. I didn’t find myself ugly or unattractive; just ordinary. One of a hundred million. The classic tragic heroine of a Gothic novel, someone like me, doesn’t make it to the finale.

Now looking at Mina, I can no longer see her life; her fire has almost been extinguished, leaving embers smoldering. And only her hair, like a burning sunset, was the only bright spot in her appearance. They crimson her white dress like blood rivers in the snow. 

 “Rosa, come with me.” The touch of her hands was icy and gave me a nasty shiver. It wasn’t Mina anymore. “Let's go, please. We can admire roses together. We can be together, Rosa. Remember what we promised each other when we were kids? Forever.”   Mina leaned towards me with her whole body, completely trespassing into my space, and with her intimacy came the suffocating, sugary smell of roses. It was a thick, enveloping aroma that instantly sat in the lungs. I thought that if I breathed it in deeper, these strange, unnatural flowers would sprout in my veins, intertwine with my bones, and create a new home for themselves in my body.

 “No!” I exclaimed, pushing Mina away from me. “I don’t want that, Mina. I don’t want you or those freaking roses in my life.”

  Suddenly on my feet, I took a few steps away from the pale Mina, who was staring at a rose that had fallen to the ground. Her posture was as vulnerable as that of a wounded animal, and her limp arms reached for the flower, which, surprisingly, began to darken and fade, touching the ground.   In her eyes, once radiant with happiness and dreaming, stood tears, and her lips began to tremble. It was as if a child whose beloved toy had been mercilessly abused had fallen to her knees, picked up a dying bud, and, in despair, pinned it to her lips.

“How can you be so cruel, Rosa?” Mina whispered, her lips gently touching the petals. “You hurt them; it breaks their heart. Can’t you just accept their love? Accept the roses?” She continued to kiss the petals.

 “What are you talking about, Mina? Whose love should I accept?” I asked cautiously. Her behavior began to frighten me.

 “You must give yourself to them, Rosa; I must give you to them.” Mina ignored my question, methodically kissing a faded flower. His dead petals began to fall away, slowly, baring his heart. “O Rosa, the rose is a rose; the rose is a deva; the deva is a rose; is a rose.”

 “Mina!” I called her by her name in an alarm. The entire situation had me in a state of primitive terror.   Mina began slowly swaying from side to side in time to your words, all the while continuing to say, “Rose is a rose, the rose is a deva.” It was meaningless, like the ravings of a madman.  The words were repeated in an endless circle, like a prayer or a ritual chant. Mina’s voice grew louder, higher, and higher until it broke, and abruptly she stopped all movement, standing there like a graceful statue.

  Once I admired her every move; now I want to cover my eyes so I never have to see her again.   What happened after became the most traumatic thing in my life. I can never forget it, no matter how much I want it. It seemed to be imprinted on my eyelids, and even after closing my eyes in my sleep, I couldn’t get rid of those memories.

  Her movements were fleeting, like the wings of a butterfly. Here she is before me, tense and waiting, and then her throat crosses a ragged line, and blood rushes through her body like a waterfall.

  Eyes shining from tears are wide open and so resemble smooth black pearls, and lips are opened as if waiting for a kiss.   For a second, Mina's body stretched like a thin string and then softened, falling on the grass.   I heard someone start screaming; the sound was so deafening and heartbreaking that I wanted to curl up in a ball and cover my ears with my hands, so I couldn’t hear.

  I found myself screaming. I needed to call for help; I had to call an ambulance, and I had to try to help her. Put my arms around her neck and cover her gaping red velvet wound.

  But I was yelling about something else instead.   My name is not Rosa; you hear me, Mina!   I am not her. · · • • • ✤ • • • · ·

I awoke in a frenzy, sweating profusely and with a wildly pounding heart from an endlessly recurring nightmare.

 This dream has haunted me for months since Mina’s funeral. Night after night, I have lived this sunrise over and over again. I didn’t like morning anymore; I started avoiding sunlight and hiding in the velvet folds of the night, sharing my loneliness with the darkness. I made the moon my friend, and the stars my silent witnesses.

  My memory is folded paper, folded a thousand times. Sometimes, I want to unwrap it, but not completely: open the brittle edges of the fragile sashes, smooth out the folds and creases with my fingers, spread out the time sequence. Unwrap it just a little, and then fold again, mixing letters and days, reality and dreams. I never want to open the pages where the memories of that morning are stored. Every time I get almost to the end, moments before the final, I run away to the safety of happy days.

  I try to come up with a new ending to this story, a different ending, but the dream comes to me like a cat, gently calling me into its embrace, and I find myself again in a place I don’t want to be.

  It’s early in the morning, and the sun is just rising above the horizon, shimmering like a limitless purple-pink ocean.

 In Mina’s crimson hair are snow-white roses, and her dress looks like an intricately woven ruffle and lace. Her pale hands holding flowers, her puffy lips in a painful smile, and her bare feet—the ground must be cold since it was the middle of October.  Her blood… and the roses.   And if it were possible to personify hatred and death, then for me, it would be roses.

  I hated and despised these flowers with all my heart. They brought only sorrow and gloominess into my life. The beautiful symbol of mourning solemnity.   They started it. They ended it all.

· · • • • ✤ • • • · ·

I was sixteen when Mina first called me Rosa. One January afternoon, she came home with a basket of the most gorgeous flowers I’ve ever seen in my life. Scarlet like the blood of a rose, they were magnificent and perfect. From that day on, I became Rosa. Why did Mina start calling me that? She never spoke.   But she completely forgot my real name. For the whole world, I was now Rosa.   After this case, every day in our small apartment, the roses became more and more numerous, until every inch of free space was filled with scarlet buds. Their smell was suffocating, thick, and sticky like honey. It is absorbed into the skin, hair, and dissolved in the blood. It made me dizzy and nauseous, and I could taste it on my tongue with every breath.   But it wasn’t just a smell. It was a color that screamed “red,” like blood itself. It poured over our house, coloring the entire apartment in a disturbing shade.

  After that, every day in our house, the roses became more and more numerous until they filled all the surrounding space.

  Soon, they became so numerous that our house looked like a tomb filled with scarlet petals hanging from the ceiling. We've been arranging here with all honors, breathing in a haze as imperceptible as rose-scented mist. 

  In all the time I lived there, not a single flower withered. It was frightening and exciting at the same time. Day followed night, and night gave way to day; but no petal lost its pristine beauty, and no bud bowed its heavy head in sorrow. There was not a single bouquet that would dilute this velvet sea with its mourning black.

  And if that did happen, Mina cried long and hard over these flowers and blamed herself for not saving them. At night, I heard the sound of her apologies and her fanatical prayers. 

  Whether she prayed to God or to the Devil, I couldn't tell. I'll find out for whom these prayers were intended many years later.

  Roses were always sent with a postcard and a box of expensive chocolates with some intricate filling. The box was necessarily in the form of a heart. The signature was also one; once the unchanged calligraphic handwriting deduced only one phrase, “For you,”

  Mina never told me who gave her these magic flowers or why the roses didn’t wither.

  I tried to ask her these questions several times, but she only brushed them off, throwing her long hair from one shoulder to the other and angrily declaring, “You must love them; you don't need to know more.”

 Mina also dyed her hair scarlet, like roses.

  I couldn’t take it anymore. Constantly surrounded by these flowers was unbearable, and one day I packed up all my things and moved in with a friend, leaving Mina alone in her regal rosary.

  My first night away from home, away from the roses and Mina, I couldn’t sleep. I tossed and turned anxiously in bed hour after hour; but the dream never came, and then the phone rang. Mina called. Crying, she begged to come home, and when I asked her why, she barely whispered, “The roses are wilted.”

  I hung up, and Mina never called me again. Two years had passed. My life had changed, and I think my luck had smiled. I found wonderful friends who were eccentric and bright. I had a great and caring boyfriend, and the internship at ballet school was promising. Everything worked out perfectly, and there were no more roses.

 Until my twentieth birthday, a huge bleeding bouquet of scarlet roses tied with topaz-embroidered ribbon appeared in my new apartment. The candy box was heart-shaped, and the caption read, “For You.”

  I burned the bouquet, threw out the chocolate, and tore the note apart, and blew it to the wind.

  No one was supposed to see or know.   Even me.    Exactly eight days after these flowers appeared, I got a call from former neighbors in the apartment complex Mina was still living in.   I was urged to come and deal with the situation; the smell of rot and death was unbearable, and Mina didn't open the doors or answer the phone.   I opened the door with my key. Opening it wide, I crossed the threshold and could not contain a short scream. All the once-luxurious roses had rotted, dripping thick, stinking jugs on the floor and accumulating in gleaming poisonous lakes. Every corner of the space was occupied by large vases with black velvet buds and tall candles. After my move, Mina got rid of all the furniture, leaving only the big bed, which was now covered with dried stems strewn with thorns.

 This place was like a grave — cold and dark — where my sister was supposed to rest.   Going deeper, I found no hint of Mina's presence. Absolutely nothing.     Only putrid roses and an empty heart-shaped box.

  Mina was gone. For a whole year, I tried to find her without success. Old friends, distant relatives, acquaintances, and any other connections she might have ever had—I checked everything, but there was nothing to help me find her. It’s like she never existed.

 In the two years we’ve been apart, I didn’t know anything about her. Mina didn’t call, and when I tried to contact her, she would reply with a short message, always the same: "Roses have wilted; come back." just like the night I left her.

  All Mina had ever thought about since that unfortunate January day were these sinister roses.

  The police began an investigation. Two years after her disappearance, Mina became officially missing.

  And a year after that, she showed up at my door in the twilight of the fall morning, barefoot, in a sophisticated lace dress with a rose crown on her head. From the Mina that I knew, all that remained was her hair—long, silky, and crimson like blood and roses.

  She still kept calling me Rosa, calling me out, and promising that we’d be happy together. That it will be only us, forever. She promised to show me where these strange flowers bloom, which she called the Deva-Rose, although these were not her words, but those of someone distant and unfamiliar to me, Hongjoong.

  And then...then Mina died. The dawn painted her body in pink shades, flooded the grass with sparkling gold, and dyed the white roses of her crown scarlet. She slit her throat. Ragged a sharp spike into it. As it turned out, even the tiniest rose spikes were deadly.   It was a nightmarish and, at the same time, majestic end to her story.   The image of Mina haunts me in dreams even now—this distant gaze in her pearly eyes and a complete absence of fear of death. No, Mina wasn't afraid. She welcomed death as an old friend, graciously opening her arms.

  It was her exodus.   I remember screaming loudly. Blood thundered in my ears, and tears flowed in an endless crystal stream. I screamed that my name wasn’t Rosa; that I wasn’t her, and never would be.

  Her funeral was truly a royal one. Rain and thunder rattle in the sky, as if raising a toast in her honor. The flat haloes of the black umbrellas swayed peacefully as the guests made their sorrowful speeches.

  Mina seemed to fall asleep, dressed in an old-fashioned wedding dress, lying there like a princess, drowning in thousands of roses.   The flowers were brought at dawn. Their color was deep and dark, as if every petal was filled with the gloaming of the night. They mourned with me.   But I knew better. It wasn’t the end; it was the beginning.  Death follows life in an endless cycle of rebirth. When one flower fades, plant a new one.  Back home that night, I found a black envelope at my door, sealed with a monogram wax seal.

  It lacked an address and the sender's signature. The message was clear and concise. "I live for you, my Rosa."

· · • • • ✤ • • • · ·   I went to the window and opened the curtains with my newfound determination. It’s time to stop being afraid and run away. Whatever it is, I’ll find out what happened to Mina. Let her start it all, but I’ll be the one to finish the story.   The last surviving girl.

· · • • • ✤ • • • · ·   How naive I was then, how stupid. The moth always flies to the flame, attracted by the warm fluttering light; he himself goes to his death.

I was that moth. Without realizing it, I came to my inevitable fate, which has been waiting for me for centuries, maybe longer. Their hands have stretched out since the darkest times, when the light didn't exist, and the Devil was as real as you and I. At that time, everyone knew his face, felt his hot breath on his skin.   The story I’m going to tell you isn't going to be bright and sweet; we’re going to go down to hell and come back. I'll take you through the dark woods to the horrors of uncharted lands where barefoot priestesses rock their sharp teeth in alluring smiles. I will take you to the castle where the prince rests in a crystal coffin and make you drink wine that tastes like blood.

  Now I have to ask you, "Are you afraid of the dark and what’s hidden in it?"   But my question is, "Love, do you like roses?"