#marie from the stranger moon

[barnbridges]

im literally the jason compson of my life it's not even funny.

[werehamburglar]

can't believe mom of the year bridget von brandt named her daughter annabelle "worm" morgenstern after a piano playing robot with a pinocchio complex that she thought was neat

[sarahghetti]

can you pretend to be my boyfriend?; m.k.

pairing: marc spector x reader, steven grant x reader, jake lockley x reader

summary: the boys pretend to be your boyfriend in order to save you from a creepy stranger.

warnings: inappropriate behaviour towards the reader, female!reader.

moon knight masterlist | all masterlists

steven

you lean over the gift shop counter, eyes wide as you ask, “can you pretend to be my boyfriend?”

poor steven is just confused at first.

“pretend to be—wait, what do you mean—?”

he doesn’t get a chance to finish that thought because the man who’s been trying to flirt with you all day suddenly rounds the corner, and you’re out of time.

“there you are!” a smarmy grin, eyes looking you up and down. it makes your skin crawl. “I was worried that you might’ve left before I could get a chance to talk to you again.”

“yeah, wouldn’t want that, now, would we?” you mutter.

it clicks in steven’s brain then, though not exactly fast enough for him to come up with a retort other than, “right, yeah, right.”

the man’s attention doesn’t waver from you, however, and you squirm on the spot. time for a hail mary, you suppose, turning back to steven. “are we still good for lunch, babe?”

“oh, yes, lunch—right, of course, love,” steven nods, more confident. “I just need to finish up some last things here, if you’re willing to wait a bit?”

you’re ready to say no worries, take all the time you need when the guy scoffs, barely sparing steven a glance. “a sales clerk? really?”

“better than the wet tissue you are, bruv,” steven snaps back, so fast that he surprises himself a little. something simmers under the man’s expression, but steven’s faster. “do I need to call security?”

that finally gets to the guy, who just mutters curses under his breath before finally pissing off. your smile is genuine now when you look at steven. “thanks for that.”

“no worries—are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” you nod. “don’t suppose you’re actually free right now, are you? the least I could do is buy you lunch as thanks.”

luckily for the both of you, he is, and he rounds the counter with a wide smile on his face before you lead the two of you out.

marc

he’s just waiting to place his order at a coffee shop when you walk in, some guy hot on your heels and prattling on despite your obvious discomfort.

“oh, hey, babe!” he doesn’t even realize you’re calling out to him until he meets your gaze, and the pleading look in your eyes is all he needs to understand what’s going on. “sorry I’m late.”

“it’s all good.” marc knows the drill, injecting warmth into his smile as he walks up to greet you. he gives you a small nod, letting you know that he’s got your back as he slips his hand into yours. “was worried about you for a minute there.”

“wait, are you two…?” the man looks between you, eyebrows furrowed.

“mhm.” he keeps his tone light, but is secretly watching like a hawk for any signs of escalation. when the guy’s mouth twists into a scowl, marc subtly tugs you behind him.

“you never said you had a boyfriend.” the venom in the words is terrifying, but marc doesn’t flinch.

“no need to cause a scene, man,” he says, tone amicable, but you take a peek at his face and his expression is as hard as stone. “now, if you’ll excuse us.”

marc leads you back into the line to order, squeezing your hand gently to stop you from looking over your shoulder. there’s the heavy stomping of feet before you hear the bell ring over the door as the guy leaves.

the relief is palpable. you finally let go of marc’s hand, face warm as you smile sheepishly at him. “thanks for the help. let me buy you a coffee?”

“don’t worry about it.” he shakes his head, but you offer again and, well, if you insist. he doesn’t mind spending the rest of his afternoon with you at all.

jake

he’s the one to notice your discomfort from across the pub, how you subtly shift away from the man leaning in close to speak directly into your ear.

when you meet his eyes, you mouth, help? and jake doesn’t even think twice before downing the rest of his drink and making his way to your table. he slaps a hand down onto the guy’s shoulder, making him jump. “think you’re in my seat, hombre.”

the man’s greasy smirk twitches, obviously thinking that jake is interrupting his ‘game’ or whatever the fuck. “nah, man, I’m just—”

“trying to hit on my girl, yeah, I can see that.” jake grins at him, but you get the impression that he’s baring his teeth more than anything. he looks to you, and his gaze softens. “you okay, there, baby?”

“better now,” you say, and it’s not a lie.

the guy turns to jake fully, sizing him up. “you think you’re so tough, huh?”

jake doesn’t even blink, just raises a single eyebrow as if daring for him to suggest taking the matter outside. it’s not even a competition, because the man backs off a moment later, angrily slipping out of the booth without looking back.

you don’t breathe until the guy finally leaves the building, at which point a heavy sigh falls from your lips.

“the nerve of that guy,” jake mutters, clicking his tongue.

“right?” you shake your head, then gesture to the now-vacant seat beside you. “care for a drink? I think I owe you after your help back there.”

“you owe me nothing,” he corrects, but slides in beside you anyways, taking your offer with a smile.

[deeznutzzzz24]

Little Red Riding Hood

Chapter Three: A New Friend

Summary: Living a life of caution for as long as she can remember, Y/N has never stayed too long in one place, always moving from town to town in hopes to hide her identity. With the Hunters Moon coming, she knows she must be extra careful, as the local culture resides heavily in the hunting of her kind. One night, when a cloaked figure unveils her secret and narrowly escapes, Y/N finds herself in a desperate situation: kill or be killed. With no face to go by, she must now search through the townsfolk before the stranger can spread the truth about her. But the task proves more than difficult when she realises her only lead is a long, crimson cloak.

Genre: horror, fantasy, little red riding hood retelling

Warnings:cursing, stalking, death, heavy smut (in later chapters)

Pairing: redridinghood!Jungwon x femwolf!reader

chapter one here

chapter two here

chapter four here

Doubt clouds my mind as I shake my head and take a step away from the door.

You’re being paranoid.

I force my hand to still and bring it to the large stretch of timber before me, knocking three times with firm affirmation.

No answer.

I press my ear to the door again, checking for any signs of noise or movement.

I hear none. Blood running cold, my hands anxiously tug at the handle, cursing in frustration as I realise it’s been locked from the inside. I feel the tiny hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Shit.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

Another scream. My mind paints a picture of a frightened old lady cowering against her kitchen sink as she shrinks from her attacker.

I start banging now, waiting for any small sign that’s she’s alright and that my mind is playing tricks on me, but it’s no use, Mary has the thickest door in all of Avion. She has my paranoia to thank for that. I hear some shuffling from inside, but still, no one opens the door. My hands twist anxiously through my hair, pulling at my fringe with such force I’m sure I feel some hair ripping out.

Backing away from the door, I give myself a moment before kicking it with all my strength and sending it toppling over to the floor.

Small muffles of noise come from the kitchen and I slow in my steps, reaching a hand underneath my dress and grabbing at the small dagger tucked in my leg strap. I hear Mary groan in pain, and while the sound pulls at my heart, I can’t help but feel thankful at the discovery that she’s still alive.

I cast a glance to the glass cabinet facing her kitchen, cursing at the blurred stains that obstruct my view.

If Helena were here, she’d tell me to walk away. To leave this cottage and Mary with it. “This is the way,” she’d remind me, “don’t let petty sentiment deter your duty to the pack.”

She has a point, though I hate to admit. My affection for Mary brings me little benefits. If I continue the way I’m going, it will only make it harder for whats to come. In the end, they must all die.

Mary is no exception.

Footsteps echo across the floor and I listen intently, ears catching the sound of the back door swinging open and shut. Her attacker has left. Whether this move is meant to be brief or not, I’m unsure, but I have to make haste of what little time I have regardless. Swinging around the corner without hesitation, I grip my knife tightly and prepare to confront a messy scene.

Mary sits hunched over the kitchen floor, breathing in small hushed breaths. Blood trickles down her left arm and rejoins in a pool of patterns on the floor. Fragments of glass litter the floor and I observe the cracked vase sitting on the kitchen counter.

Mary doesn’t notice my presence, too busy hunching over her leg to hear my footsteps approach.

“Mary….” I speak softly, afraid of startling her. The glass begins to crunch beneath my boots, the sound sending uneasy quivers up my spine. “Mary.” Growing impatient as I crouch down before her, I gently lift her head to look at me, and I can’t help but smile when her sweet face comes into view.

Mary turned eighty five last Spring. Her hearing comes in little flecks of focus now, which explains why she wouldn’t have heard me banging at the door.

“Y/N,” she smiles up at me, giving my cheek a small pinch before cocking her head sideways. “I didn’t know you were coming today?”

I have to stop myself from laughing. Mary asked me yesterday to bring some flowers on my visit. As I said, eighty five.

I give her hair a pat and go to help her up. “I decided to visit because I missed you too much.” I lie through my teeth, “though I wasn’t aware you’d get yourself into so much trouble before I came.” Before I can help her stand, she gently swats my hands away, pointing at the small chunk of glass hanging out of from underneath her foot. The shard seems wedged deep enough to have cut nerves. Jesus, that’s gotta hurt.

If I had of come sooner, her attacker would of been faced with me, not a weak, elderly lady whom, quite literally, wouldn’t hurt a fly. Before I can move any further, the sound of the back door swinging open echoes through the house.

My hands reach for my dagger and I instinctively move in front of Mary. Shit.

Hurried footsteps rush through the living room and I have to stop myself from gripping the dagger too tight. He’s coming back. While my human form is strong , I am still constricted to the same strength as any other mortal girl from Avion.

Before I can lunge forward, Mary reaches a small hand up to tug at my dress. Glancing down, I watch in confusion as she shakes her head with an amused smile. Before I can protest, a young man rounds the corner, brushing past me as he juggles an assortment of first aid items and crouches down before Mary.

“Damn little lady, you seriously need to clear out that shack. Couldn’t see a damn thing.” He huffs, hands frantically sorting between jars. He picks one up and starts applying the herbal paste to her wound.

Mary reaches out a hand, brushing it against the strangers face before roughly grabbing at his cheek. Watching on in utter confusion, I glance between the two, trying to figure out their relationship.

Is he a young friend like me?

Is he family?

From what I was aware, Mary didn’t have any family in Avion.

He lets out a pained groan and tosses her a frown. “I wonder who you got that impatience from.” She laughs, brushing his hair back into place and motioning to her arm.

His frown melts into a cheeky smile. “Oh I think we both know who I got it from.”

She returns his smile. “Hurry up with those bandages, boy. I’ll bleed out at this rate with all this yapping.”

To an onlooker, the exchange would make the two out to be a pair of angry old siblings.

If it weren’t for the obviously enormous age gap, I know I’d certainly think so too.

The two murmur quietly amongst themselves, both impervious to my presence as I stand awkwardly a few feet away.

The young man stands, carefully brushing the glass to the side with a broom. Mary pouts, gazing at her once gorgeous vase now littered in little pieces across the floor. He catches her sad gaze mid sweep, giving her hair a soft pat. “Don’t worry, I’ll go into town tomorrow and get you a new one.”

She shakes her head, eyes glossing over. “It’s ok, it’s not something that can be replaced anyway. It was one of a kind.” Though I can only see his back, I catch the way the boys shoulders tense from her words.

The awkwardness becomes so overwhelming to the point where I don’t know whether to join in or leave.

The stranger helps Mary to her feet, brushing the glass from her apron with gentle motions. “You and your glassware. I tell you if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you cared more about your vases than you do me.”

Mary props herself against a chair, cradling her foot as he rushes to fetch her some water. “And don’t you forget it!” She shouts as the back door swings open and shut once more. “Oh my….” She gasps, finally realising I’ve been standing there all along. Laughing awkwardly, I smile to try and ease the tension between us.

“You didn’t tell me you had a visitor.” I smile through gritted teeth, trying not to let my frustration seep through. If I had of known, maybe I wouldn’t of rushed in here like hell on wheels. Before she can answer, the young man enters once more, this time stopping mid step as he notices Mary’s warm gaze pointed in the opposite direction.

Pointed at me.

The next few seconds slow in their course, a cold bite of nerves eat at my neck as the stranger slowly turns to face me, his features finally coming into view. Within seconds his eyes have found mine, and I have to remind myself how to breathe.

Face an attractive blur, the young beau bares soft ebony eyes with raven strands of hair that fall across smooth fair skin. It’s only when Mary clears her throat at my long silence that I come to a most uncomfortable discovery.

He’s the most beautiful boy I’ve ever seen.

Mary, amused, smiles from her kitchen corner, no doubt expectant of my surprised reaction. “Gets it from his father.” She laughs, gesturing towards her guest.

I throw her a confused glance, “Gets what?” I feign ignorance, but I can tell she doesn’t buy it.

“His looks, you silly girl.”

But the two of us aren’t listening anymore, standing in silence as Mary’s voice echoes through the space between us. I wait for him to respond to her taunts, but he doesn’t seem to find them amusing, in fact, he doesn’t pay them any mind at all.

He remains frozen from across the counter, eyes wide with something I can’t quite place. It’s then that he backs away, putting as much distance between us as he can. A shard of glass sticks upright from the floor behind him, and I open my mouth to warn him, but it’s too late.

The shard cuts through his boot, wedging itself into skin. The sound is so disturbing that we can hear as it squelches through flesh.

Mary stops laughing.

We both look up at him, waiting for him to double over in pain, but the boy pays his foot no heed, his pretty eyes trained on me as though I’m the only thing in the world that could hurt him.

Does he…..?

The cold nerves come back. My left hand, still clutching its dagger, instinctively tightens its grasp around the hilt.

He…….recognises me.

But that’s just the thing, though.

I don’t recognise him.

There’s no way….

“Jungwon!” Mary’s voice manages to break his daze and, after what feels like a lifetime, he finally shifts his gaze away.

So he has a name.

Jungwon.

“Look at your foot! Oh my goodness!” Mary bustles over to the mix of herbal pastes, grabbing the biggest jar and forcing him onto a stool.

She kneels to take off his boot, only for him to stand abruptly and move away. “Jungwon…”

I let my lips melt into an all too familiar smile, turning to the elderly lady who’s now kneels at his side. “Mary, you silly goose…” Feigning a laugh, I shake my head at her, “I thought you were getting beaten to death. You should’ve told me if you had another guest, I could’ve come another time.” She tries to make her way over but I’m quick to intercept and force her onto a chair. “Don’t even try, you need rest.”

She opens her mouth to protest but gives up just as easily.

“You’re right my dear, I’m sorry. It must’ve slipped my mind that you were visiting today. And just to be clear, if we ever were in such a situation, I’d be the one doing the beating, not the other way around. This idiot couldn’t hurt a fly.”

I smile at her humour. “Sure thing.”

“Ah, how silly of me! It would seem I’ve forgotten to properly introduce you.” She gestures to her guest and then back to me, as if to beckon us closer. “This is my grandson, Jungwon.”

My eyes fly to him. Grandson.

“Jungwon, say hello. This is Y/N, a friend of mine from town.” But her words don’t seem to comfort him. If anything, they appear to make him more anxious.

He gives me an awkward bow, eventually meeting my gaze with a great deal of hesitation.

My eyes dart down to the kitchen corner on his left, to the knife that sits idle by its board. His hand itches a few inches from it.

He doesn’t trust me.

Smart boy.

I laugh, giving him my warmest smile as I step forward, addressing Mary. “I wasn’t aware you had family in Avion.” I offer him a hand as I wait for her response.

He doesn’t take it.

“Jungwon is visiting from Borth, where him and his mother live. He visits every Winter, which is why you haven’t met him before.”

Ah. Of course.

I wasn’t here last Winter.

Mary bustles around the kitchen with her small limp, sweeping glass from corner to corner. She takes notice of her grandson avoiding my hand. “Jungwon! Don’t be rude!” She turns to me with a smirk. “Don’t mind him my dear, he’s just a shy idiot. Gets that from his father too.”

After a great deal of hesitation, Jungwon reaches his hand across, flinching when our fingers touch. His hands are warm and soft, a stark contrast to mine. Our hands meet with haste and just as quickly, he pulls his away, retreating completely until he’s backed against the kitchen counter.

I give a small bow to Mary. “Well then, I best be heading off. It was a pleasure meeting you Jungwon.” He doesn’t respond, instead bowing as he stares at the floor. Mary smacks the back of his head. “Walk her back to town boy.” He whips his head to her, his gaze pleading. I smile.

“A kind gesture. But I’ll be quite alright by myself.”

“Nonsense!” She shrieks, pushing Jungwon out the door and throwing him a coat. “The woods aren’t safe for a young beauty like you! Don’t worry, Jungwon wants to take you anyway.” I glance to the boy by her side.

His expression tells me otherwise, but he remains silent.

She gives him a sly nudge, bringing his ear down for her whispers. “Maybe you’ll make a new friend.” The boy remains silent, only nodding anxiously as a response.

“Really,” I laugh, pressing my hands to hers, “I’ll be fine. Besides I’m sure you’ll get him working on the door soon enough.” We look down to the door laying across her floor, it’s hinges torn awkwardly from the wall. “Sorry about that by the way. I got a bit impatient.”

“Oh I’ll get him working alright. When he gets back.” She murmurs, pushing Jungwon through the doorway and bidding us farewell. Jungwon leads the way, staring at the ground with fake fascination as if to distract himself. I don’t even have to turn back to know Mary’s probably waving warmly from her porch. She never goes back inside until she’s sure I’m sent off safely. Smiling, I turn around to bid her one last goodbye, but by the time my eyes catch sight of her little cottage trailing behind in the distance, she’s long gone.

————-

JESEUS!!!!! I’m so sorry to all my readers who were waiting for this one lmao it took me months just to publish one damn chapter! GOOD NEWS THO I’ve already written about 70% of chapter 5 so I’d say that’ll published at the end of this week sometime. I’ll let y’all know🙏 ps to that one anon who keeps sending rude ass demands and questions about why I’m “taking forever” if you keep sending them I’m gonna scrap this entire story just to annoy u 😘

If you want to join taglist, let me know😚

Taglist:

@ramenoil @moonmoongi @chlorinecake @denleave1088 @cha0thicpisces @w3bqrl @yu-yin-04 @rizzhee

[br0-k3n-sch00lb01]

Oh- oh- I'm sorry- Sorry! It's not in my title, So I'm not quite sure what's in that vial- But that sickness that you have is vile!!

O-Oh, I'm sorry, sorry! T-Terribly- so sorry, sorry! Just stay down a moment, I can tend to - tend to- tend to you—!!

Friendz!!

@n3hmof1sh + @cru3l-th3s1s (Husbandz!! ><)

@basilcatt143 < one of my best friends (ily jayyyyyy /p)

@the-worm-machine < another one of my best friends!! Ily omori!! /p ><

@amethiist143 < a newer mutual that i still really love… !!! /p of course!! ^^

@o-m-o-r

@starfilled-galaxy

@cloud-of-corvids

@intothevoid125 (mother…)

All of our headmates + tags:

HOST/ UNKNOWN:

host: 📻

Blurry: ⌛️

Unknown: ❓

—

OMORI:

Basil (the bitch one)- 🌿

Canon RW Basil- 🌸

HS Basil- 💐

Sunny- 🎻

Kel- 🛹

Aubrey- 💒

Hero- ❄️

Capt. Spaceboy - 🪐

Sweetheart- 🎀

Stranger- 🗝️

Mari - 💌

Omoriboy- ♠️

—

MISC/SINGLE FROM SOURCE:

Wally Darling - 🏠

Link - 🟡

Kagamine Len - 🍌🎶

Aled Last - 🌀

Artemis (Sailor Moon) - 🌙

Marcille- 🪞

Kokichi- 🎲

—

NOT SOURCED/OC:

Milo- 🎠

Mello/Mellohi- 🍈

Sol- 🎫

Opal- 🍰

Tryst- 🌻

Cosmo- 🐚

Zip- 🥀

Fanfic info:

uhhh i’ll write short omori fics now?!

I mean no proshipping and typical stuff.

but yeah ships stuff like Heromari, Kelbrey, Sunflower, Spaceheart, Suntan, Cactiflower, Photobomb etc is welcome!! Just send me an ask and i’ll try to answer as soon as possible!! Character X Reader is also allowed! I love doing those heheh… um.

So yeah!!

also u can send prompts and NSFW reqs too (including gore)!! I like prompts and they can be as custom as u want! So go ahead and shoot ur shot guys!! I can also do non-ship/ platonic!! Anything really!!

[angel-of-the-moons]

Running With The Wolves

Wolfwalker!Moon Knight (Marc/Steven/Jake) x Fem!Reader

Summary:

You're on the verge of being labeled a witch, but can one handsome stranger (and his two "brothers") save you from the same cruel fate as your mother, who was labeled as one and burned at the stake?

Can you handle the truth about your heroes identities, despite it all? Would you find out who your masked savior truly was beneath his cloak?

Only you could answer that.

TW/CW: Witch hunts, violence, graphic violence, graphic death, blood, public execution, parental death, persecution, grief, depression, Wolfwalkers AU, Moon Knight AU, incorrect lore

MINORS DNI I AM NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR CONTENT YOU CONSUME

A/N: I was watching Wolfwalkers and it gave me the idea for the boys. I did a little research into the lore, so some will be inaccurate (my pagan ancestors would frown upon me lmao) as well as historically inaccurate; so what is in this fic is largely based on the film. It will be especially inaccurate because y'know, Marc is American and Jake is Spanish and Steven is English etc, as well as Khonshu being around (but in the comics he's had a Viking Moon Knight so this isn't too far fetched he'd be in a place like Ireland) so please bear with me, my poor mind has been going through it lately and I wanted to write somethin' pointless, so enjoy this weird ass AU I came up with! (Header does not indicate the reader's race!)

Taglist: @enheduannasposts

🐺🐺🐺🐺🐺🐺🐺🐺🐺🐺

PT. 1

"I heard tha's the girl who lives on the outskirts." You heard a young woman whisper to her friend. Her accent was clearly not from Ireland. She sounded like one of the people from England. They'd been arriving slowly but surely, like a trickle from a leaky bucket, since you were a child.

Your skin prickled as you looked over the vegetables in the market stall, tended to by an old woman who was blind in one eye. Mary, her name was. Mary was probably one of the only around here who was kind to everyone, unless they gave her a reason not to. And those two English girls certainly gave her a reason...

"Aye, ye two hussies best be leav'n this girl be!" She spat, waving her old wooden stick around. "She 'ent done nothin' to ye!"

The two women jumped back with a yelp and scurried off, an armored guard eyeing you and Mary warily.

Your nose crinkled at him and you turned your nose up as you looked back at the crop Mary was selling.

"I'm sorry, lass. I don't like 'em either." Mary said, winking her blind eye at you.

You can't help but smile as you trade some herbs for the vegetables, placing the juicy morsels into your basket. "I just would like for things to go back to the way they were." You sighed.

"Like when I was a girl, before they came to our town. Things were fine, everything was in balance."

Mary leaned in, holding a finger to the sky as she spoke quietly to you.

"Aye, lass. But don't worry. The crimes these English folk are doin' to us? They'll be payin', mark my words! The land, the very sky itself is angry because we can't honor the promises we made so long ago." She grinned, half her teeth missing from old age. "Then, maybe we'll be forgiven."

"Aye, or maybe be consumed by the wolves and the forest while we're at it." You smile sadly. You remembered being safe in those woods as a girl, playing in the creeks, chasing birds and hares, the wolves singing on the breeze...

But the wolf attacks have become ever so common, now. None had been bitten, but their homes had been trashed, their livestock spirited away into the cover of night, wolf tracks everywhere. You were the only one whose homestead was spared. You often wondered why. The only thing different between your little plot and the rest of the homes that were driven empty was... wait.

They were all English.

You weren't. That house you lived in had belonged to your family for nearly half a century. The English farmsteads were placed on the grounds that were cleared by the King's woodcutters and soldiers, they were the ones being attacked. Not you.

But lately, you've heard other tales as well. A "devil in white" the King's men would ramble, their voices shrill with fear. A man in white armor who moved like a ghost, and fought like hell itself. You paid no mind, figuring it may be some hermetic hunter who called the forest home, who simply didn't want to have them invade his solitude.

Maybe--

"Lass, you should get home." Mary said, looking at you with worry as a small gaggle of women whispered and pointed at you. You were used to the stares, you'd been getting them as a child. But since the English arrived, those whispers became accusations.

"Witch."

Your mother had faced a similar accusation, given her odd habits and ways of whispering to the wind.

Some considered her addled, even moreso when she began raving of spirits and the voices she said came from the ground.

You remembered the night that she died, the horrible, evil way that she left this world.

🐺🐺🐺🐺🐺🐺🐺🐺🐺🐺

You were only twelve years old, gripped hard by the local men as the bishop to your village spoke from the Bible, quoting things about the crimes of witchcraft and how your mother could only be cleansed by fire.

You screamed, and kicked, and cried and cursed, but all that earned you was a punch to the gut as they lit the kindling beneath your mother's feet.

You'd heard tales of witch burnings, but you'd never ever thought such horrible deeds would come to your town; your safe, warm little home.

Your mother was strange, yes, but she taught you many things that had proven useful. The best herbs to cure the worst fever, the best tonics to drink to cure an ailing cough, how to track in the woods, how to trust the forest to show you the way home; but only if you respected it as a living being, and respected the souls who lived within.

She wasn't a "witch" to you.

She was your mother.

And she was right in front of you, burning.

"Mummy!" You screamed, your voice sounding as though you swallowed shards of pottery.

She looked at you, and smiled, crying and struggling against the ropes that bound her to the stake.

The fire crept up, up, until it reached her feet.

You could smell it--the acrid, disgusting stench of oil and burning flesh. You could see her skin blister, peel, and burn away as she screamed, begged for mercy. Mercy that the church was not willing to grant her.

You screamed and cried until your throat was raw and bloody, struggling until you broke free of the men's arms.

You didn't think twice on it--you leapt towards the pyre.

Your mother was dead. You knew this. But all you wanted was to hold her one last time, even if all that was left now was blackened, charred flesh.

Your soft, delicate hands burned, your dress beginning to catch aflame as you desperately tried to reach for what little remained of the woman you loved most in the world.

The pain was so blinding, so debilitating that your vision went white around the edges, and you saw the world begin to go dark.

"Damn it--put the girl out!" Was the last thing that you heard before you lost consciousness.

When you'd awoke, it had been two whole days since your mother's trial and burning. Two days since she plead to the "court" about how they were treating the land; that if they didn't change their ways they would all suffer for it.

The first face you saw was the bishop looking down at you with a solemn and sad expression, completely different from the way his eyes had gleamed maniacally as he cheered the death of your mother.

"I'm sorry, dear girl." He said kindly, resting a hand on your shoulder.

Your arms and hands were wrapped in clean linen--or, well, as clean as they could get it, anyway--your burns itching and painful.

You gritted your teeth, feeling hot tears burn as you glared at him, your throat still raw and aching.

"You killed her!" You meant to yell, but it only came out a hoarse croak.

"Aye, girl, I did. But I took no pleasure in it."

Liar. Filthy, disgusting liar! You wanted to shout, You smiled when she screamed!

"Your mother was bewitched by the devil, don't you see? The only way to ensure she could make it to heaven was if she was cleansed by fire." He told you, his wrinkled eyes looking at you with such gentleness you could almost scarcely believe this was your beloved mother's executioner.

"At least now, you know your mother made it to the gates of heaven. And hopefully God finds it in Him to grant your mother eternal peace." He continued, "After all, she loved you greatly, and there is nothing more pure than a mother's love. Even if it was the love of a witch."

You bite back bile that wanted to rise--partly from the pain, partly from disgust--and turned your head away, your tears heavy like chains that hung from your lashes and held your eyes closed.

"So hopefully, we can pray she found salvation and forgiveness in the fact she loved you so."

His hand brushed a lock of burnt hair from your face.

"Don't worry, girl... You can go home. But I must implore you not to give in to the teachings your mother no doubt gave you. None of that talking trees or animals nonsense, you hear?"

You wanted to kick him, to bite his disgusting fingers off and pluck out his eyes. But... all you did was nod, and say:

"I understand."

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Later that night, barring the English women's gossip, you'd had a fairly decent day. Your snare on the edge of the forest had gotten a nice hare; providing you with some nice soft fur and meat and bone.

You'd spent your days thereafter doing much of the same work you'd done since you returned to your empty home the week your mother died. You gardened, placed more snares, cleaned the house, worked the loom, began weaving a small tapestry.

One night, you were broken from your tedium by heavy hands on your door, making you yelp and prick yourself with a needle.

You stuck your bloody fingertip in your mouth and stuffed the tapestry into your heavy wooden chest, rushing to your front door to see what was the trouble.

When you opened it, there was the bishop, flanked by two men in heavy plate armor. You felt a shiver creep up your spine; the sight was eerily similar to the night your mother was taken away, only this time the bishop looked so ancient he looked like a piece of dried, brittle leather.

"Dear girl, thank God you're alright." The bishop breathed, reaching out to place a hand on your shoulder.

Your brow creased, and you opened your mouth to speak, only for him to cut you off.

"That... That man, that devil whom the townsfolk here and elsewhere have been seeing--he was here. Tonight! He killed four of the King's finest men!" He said, panicked, his touch cold and clammy.

"And earlier in the day... wolves. A pack of white wolves! I feared for you, girl. I know that you're alone and so far from town." He shuddered a breath. His lungs sounded awful, even to your ears. Honestly... If the man had allowed it, you could have fixed his long coughing illness. He's been suffering for years with it, sometimes to the point where his surmons had to be delivered by proxy.

He was suffering... but so had your mother, whom he murdered in the name of his god.

Your jaw was tight, and you nodded. "I... I see. I haven't been attacked yet, sir. B-but I will keep an eye out and alert you if I see anything strange."

You wouldn't.

"I don't want that devil to hurt anyone else."

You hoped he chased them all away.

He mistook your shaky voice for one of mutual fear for the man that haunted the nights, like the dreaded vampires back in England and the smaller towns and villages.

"Yes, dear girl." He put his hand to your cheek and smiled, his aged features twisting in agony. "A good girl. May God protect you."

"And He, you." You replied, the words tasting like rotten meat on your tongue.

"Such a good girl." He turned, coughing into his hand. "May God help civilise this land..."

Thunder boomed in the distance, almost as if the very sky itself was urging the cruel men on their way, to leave you be.

As soon as your door was closed, you grabbed a nearby cauldron and heaved it over to your hearth, hanging it from the iron hook and dumping the pail of water into it to boil.

You hastily stripped your clothes free and dumped them into the cauldron, rushing to find your small bottles of tonics.

When you'd found the ones you needed, you dumped them, alongside fresh herbs, into the pot with your soaking clothes.

You knew, based on your own observations, that those who coughed often spread it through touch or spit. And he had coughed into his hands and touched you; you simply don't want to take the risk.

You had to start selling your healing tonics "under the table" as Mary said, as cleaning agents for clothes and blankets just so you could pass it to the townsfolk with sick family. You hated doing that, but seeing a sickly child able to run around with her siblings again without fear of that wretched cough was worth the pain of lying.

You watched as the water bubbled, standing naked as you poked at the fabric with your long wooden spoon, swirling it around and around.

Once you deemed it hot enough, you carefully picked up the cauldron and set it on your stone slab at the mouth of your hearth, you scooped some of the herbal water into your wash bucket and began scrubbing at your clothes mercilessly to rid it of any possible sickness.

Once they were clean enough, you hung them near the fire to dry (but not close enough to catch fire while you were asleep).

You felt goosebumps chill your skin as the wind rattled your shutters, so you grabbed a heavy woolen blanket to wrap yourself up in while you dug around for a new linen dress to put on.

It was a small comfort, given how early in the year it was, and these certain storms always brought unseasonably cold weather in their shadow, but you accepted it nonetheless.

You walked over to your wooden chest and pulled out your half-finished tapestry. It was one your mother started when you were barely hip-height; your father, strong and large, next to your mother, petite and soft. Interconnecting between them was you, holding their larger hands in your tiny ones.

Much of it was unfinished, and only within the last year did your grief finally allow you to finish what she started, as this was the only thing left that you had of her. When the church took her away, your mother knew they were coming, so she hid certain things out in the woods for safekeeping, only telling you their whereabouts. Once the church lifted it's eye from you one autumn day, you finally ran out into the clearing your mother hid her things in.

Being able to have something to visually remember your parents by wrenched your heart in a bittersweet way, but it was all you had of them, other than their rings you wore, hidden and slung low beneath your bodice so nobody would see.

You knew if the bishop found out... He would have them all destroyed, burned like your mother; and he would likely have you thrown into the stocks and publicly lashed as punishment.

In a twisted way, the bishop cared for you. He saw you as an innocent, God-fearing girl who had been brainwashed by your witch mother, whom only acknowledged the paganistic "Old Ways".

You hated having to keep up the act, but you didn't want to die. You owed it to your mother and father, wherever their souls were together, to live on.

You blinked, and a heavy teardrop splashed down onto the tapestry.

Your body jolted with the clap of thunder. How long had you been crying? Had you been crying this whole time, but didn't realize it? Oh, you hated how often these crying fits would strike you.

All you wanted to do was think of the happy times with your family, but it always came back to the fact that they were dead and you were alone.

You dropped back onto your bed, the old, dried wood creaking beneath your weight, the smell of the straw mattress stuffed with dried flowers and clovers soothing to your senses.

Your eyes felt heavy, weighted down from your painful thoughts, and you turned your head to look at the wreath above your bed, shamrocks with dried berries carefully strung together; it was something your mother taught you. You couldn't remember the significance of the thing, but making them when you were bored became a mundane comfort.

You closed your eyes and sighed heavily.

You would need to check your snares in the morning.

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Your leather shoes squelched in the mud as you carefully made your way to the treeline early that next morning. You nervously chewed the inside of your cheek to check if the coast was clear before venturing into the bushes.

It was early enough none had arisen yet to start the day, the sun was barely peeking over the horizon as you set off into the forest.

Yes, setting your traps beyond the treeline was dangerous, as they would tell you, but you knew the game in the woods was fat and ripe, perfectly full of meat. If you could hunt at all, you would try your aim at shooting one of those slovenly bucks with a bow and arrow.

But a hunter you were not. Trap-maker, yes. But no hunter.

Your tiny iron dagger was slung low on your hip, your mostly-empty wooden sack carrying fresh bait for any snares that were sprung, or if the bait had been snatched.

The first two traps hadn't been sprung, but picked clean, most likely by birds and quick-witted squirrels. No luck in catching anything.

But as you neared your final trap, you heard an odd noise. A wheezing sound, almost, followed by heavy pants and a whimper.

Your footsteps stopped as you peered around the thick trunk of an ancient tree, your breath catching in your throat as you looked at the sight in front of you.

It was your last snare, set up with some bread and berries to lure in a rabbit or squirrel (as was your typical game) but it seems that this time, somehow... you snagged a wolf.

And this was not a normal wolf; it was one with fur as white as the coldest snow, now muddied and stained from the soggy ground it flailed around in; your snare secured firmly around its neck and front paw, cinching the two together in a painful manner.

Your heart broke as you saw the creature struggle and wheeze, choking out quiet howls that couldn't be heard through the underbrush.

With your jaw set tight, you stepped out of the clearing, and the wolf turned to you, trying to limp away.

"Shhh, hush, now." You soothe the animal, your hands out in front of you as you got lower, trying to seem less threatening.

Yes, the townsfolk feared wolves, but you wouldn't just leave this beautiful creature to slowly strangle to death on one of your own traps; your soul wouldn't be able to handle the weight of guilt.

"I won't hurt you, sweetie." You say, your voice calm and soft as you reached out.

The wolf snapped tentatively at you, whimpering as the pain of the cord dug further into its throat and paw, red stains now blotching the white fur.

"It's all right. I won't hurt you..." You urge the panicked animal. Your own eyes locked with its dark brown ones, and you could almost hear its thoughts plead:

Help me. Please. It hurts. Please!

You wait for the wolf to still, and sit its haunches on the ground, those big, pained eyes staring right through to your very soul.

Once the wolf is calm, you hook your fingers through the snare, reaching for the part of it that looped around, and try to loosen it enough for it to slip free.

But to no avail, the amount of flailing the wolf had done had twisted and cinched it to the point you couldn't. Your brow pinched and you nervously chewed the inside of your cheek before unsheathing your dagger.

Upon seeing the glint of the blade, the wolf whimpered and panicked again, beginning to flail once more as you reached for it.

"No!" You say, frantically trying to calm the beast. "Stop! You're making it worse! Please--I'm not going to hurt you."

You grunt as you leap forward, crushing the wolf against you in a bear hug, trying to calm its thrashing body as you swing your sharpened blade through the cord, severing it from the branch it was tethered to.

You sliced your thumb in an attempt to cut the cord around its throat, but you somehow managed it, your blood leaving fresh streaks of red and pink through the wolf's surprisingly soft fur.

You drop your dagger and release the animal, falling back on your bum as you carefully crawl away as the canine heaved for uninhibited air, its barreled chest shaking with effort.

Once it had collected itself, it limped up to you, it cut paw hanging an inch or two above the ground as its wet, charcoal black nose sniffed at your wounded thumb.

Its pink tongue laved out and lapped up your blood, as if to say "sorry" for causing you to injure yourself for trying to aid it.

Your eyes however, were drawn to the cuts into the wolf's throat and paw, oozing small rivulets of blood as it stared at you.

"Oh... You poor..." You breathed, rising to kneel on your knees, dirtying your skirt even more.

"I... Those can get infected. Please. I... I can help you..."

You don't know why you were trying to bargain with an animal, but somehow it paid off. The wolf nosed its way into your lap, ears flattened up and eyes pleading up at you.

"Okay..." You murmur, scratching behind one of its ears. "Let's get you home, boy. I have stuff there that can help ya."

The wolf whimpered.

"Er... Well, I assume you're male?" You chuckle awkwardly, trying to think of how to carry this large and hefty animal back home without being seen.

"I'm not gonna violate you by takin' a peek or anything." You clear your throat when one of the wolf's ears flop as "he" tilts his head at you.

"Er. Okay. Let's go..."

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It was easier than you thought, getting him back home. As the sun crept higher, the fog and mist were your ally as you smuggled the "dangerous" animal back to the safety of your home.

You had to haul him over your shoulders and beat feet through the underbrush. Once you were safely inside, you had to (with great difficulty) maneuver the wolf down onto your bed.

You chuckled when he rolled over--and he was most definitely a "he"--and began rolling this way and that into your blankets, making small huffs and growls.

"Ah-ah..." You murmur, reaching out to brush your hand through his muddy fur. "You might make your injuries worse, 'kay, m'love?"

That seems to get the wolf's attention. You weren't sure if he could understand you, which honestly had you thinking you were crazy, but the way he sat up and stared at you, one ear flopping down as he looked up into your eyes sent a strange feeling through your body.

"Hmm..." You murmur, brushing your fingers tentatively around his wounded throat. From his muddy thrashing he'd accumulated a fair amount of dirt, and that would lead to infection.

You hike your skirts up and tie them around your waist, and you could almost swear you saw a look of modesty cross the wolf's eyes as his ears slicked back against his head and he buried his muzzle into your warm blankets.

You scratch the back of your head, a little confused at his reaction as you adjust your knickers and rush to gather your herbs you'd need, plucking dried leaves and roots that hung above your hearth.

You set the herbs down into your mortar and pestle and begin to grind them down, mixing them evenly into a dissolvable mass that would melt in the water once you'd boiled it.

You crack your knuckles and grab a pail, untying your skirts and smoothing them out, frowning at the mud stains as you reach for your door, making a "shush" gesture to the wolf.

"Stay quiet and don't go near the windows! It's dangerous if you're seen." You gently urge him before slipping outside into the morning light once again.

The trek to the well was always annoying, but your neighbors never minded you coming to fetch water, knowing how dangerous it could possibly be for you to hike to the creek at the edge of the forest just to get yourself some of the life-giving liquid.

You inwardly cringed when the Kenny's daughter, Aisling, was already at the well; her belly already round with her unborn child. Barely 19 years of age and she was already with a babe; she was often sickly as a child, this you remembered, so her family (namely her husband) was very concerned about her well-being and that of her impending birth.

Upon seeing you approach, Aisling smiled widely and waved at you, saying your name chipperly, almost like an excited morning bird.

You were really hoping not to have a conversation so early, afraid someone would know you were harboring a wolf inside your home...

"Hello, Aisling. Feeling well this morning?" You hum innocently at her as you tie your pail up, before cranking the wench and lowering it down to the water below.

"Yes, surprisingly!" She giggled, patting her belly with a soft smile. "M' little one decided it was a good day to let mummy keep food down."

"That's good! I still recommend broths if you feel nauseous, however..."

"I know, I know. My mum is constantly making sure of that." She sighed with a roll of her eyes, hooking her own two pails of water onto her yoke.

Your hairs raised and you reached out, the wench slipping from your hands and your bucket dropping all the way back down into the water below the earth.

"No! You mustn't lift something that heavy." You caution. "It's not good for your baby."

"Ohhh! You sound like my father." She sighs, frowning deeply, her hands on her hips. "I'm not helpless, y'know!"

"Yes, I'm aware, but--"

"Aisling!" Her husband panted, trotting up to the both of you. He was at least a decade or so older than she was, but nonetheless it was a good match; he seemed to love her greatly. He was English, and one of the few kind ones you've known, in fact. A gentle giant.

This fact was emphasized when his large bulky hand reached down to touch her belly, sighing with relief. "No, no, you know that you can't be out here alone! The wolves!"

"I 'ent seen no wolves!" Aisling pouted up at him.

"That doesn't mean no wolves see you, m'love." He sighed dejectedly at her. He gives you a kind smile and a nod, hoisting the yoke over his own shoulders, "Aye, lass. Glad to see someone else talking some sense into my pretty little wife, here..."

"Bah!" Aisling scoffed, throwing her arms in the air as she waddled back down to their house.

He shook his head with a chuckle, "I swear, if we have a girl and she turns out like her..."

"You'll have your hands full, alright." You sigh, cranking the wench again.

"Aye." He says, giving you a cautious look. "But, I must warn you, the same way I did Aisling... with these wolves about, it's dangerous..."

"I know." You smile. "I'll be fine."

"Alright..." He replies, giving you one last look before going back home to his wife and family.

You on the other hand, rushed back home with your water to your waiting furry companion...

You almost dropped the pail of water when you saw what he was doing. Somehow he managed to nose open up the chest containing your mother's things, and was insistently sniffing the tapestry.

"Ah! No, no, no!" You frantically say, setting the water down to rush over, gently shoving his snout to the side to close the chest.

"Gah..." You sigh in relief, and smile softly at the wolf, reaching out to pinch and squish his cheek. And surprisingly, he took it well, making a little "whurf!" as you do.

"Don't go through my stuff, it's not very polite after I risked my arse you take care of you." You chuckle, setting yourself to task of boiling the water with the ground herbs. You kneel next to the remaining bit of water on the floor, dipping a rag into the pail and making a clicking noise with your teeth.

The wolf tipped his head to the side, ears pricking up at the noise as he slowly moseyed over to you shyly.

"Oh relax, I won't poison ya." You chuckle, dabbing the soaked cloth onto his fur, cleaning him of the muck.

He of course, did not like this. He whimpered and tucked his tail between his legs, his gorgeous brown eyes pleading with you.

"Ah! That won't work on me, Mister... You need to be clean before I can clean your wounds!" You cluck at him, not falling for his cute little attempt.

Thankfully, he sits there and lets you gently massage the mud away, carefully cleaning around his wound sites before hastily grabbing the pot of boiling water and pouring some into a wooden bowl.

You scratch behind one of his ears and say softly, "Now... I'm going to take care of you, okay? Now... just let me..."

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"No! Down! Bad wolf!" You groan, watching as his tail wagged happily, one of your kirdles firmly in his jaws, daring you to come get it.

"Ooooh! I should have left you in the woods!"

His ears flatten back and his eyes get big, giving you the sweetest, saddest look you've ever seen...

And it definitely broke you.

"Ah... You little... mouth off my clothes!" You grunt, tugging the garment from between his teeth, groaning at the sight of tears from his fangs.

He dropped down onto his front paws, wagging his tail happily as he makes a playful whine and yip.

"Oi! Ya seem just fine now!" You scold the animal, shaking the torn kirdle in front of him.

It was true. In just one day, your furry companion seemed to have healed miraculously faster than what was natural. It concerned you... but you didn't feel threatened by the creature's playful antics.

If anything, having him around made you feel less... lonely.

Dinner was almost ready, a simple stew with vegetables and salted meats tossed in. You weren't sure if wolves could eat such a meal, but you would feel awful if you were eating and your new friend merely had to sit and watch.

You sigh and toss your clothes aside, watching with a snort as the wolf playfully dove for it, rolling around and kicking it with his feet as you used your ladle to scoop two bowls.

You curled your feet beneath you as you plopped a spoon into your bowl before placing the spare on the floor. Your wolf's ears perked up and he sniffed the air, licking his chops as he abandoned your torn-up kirdle in favor of investigating the food you placed for him.

You smiled around your mouthful as he accidentally dipped his nose too deep into the broth, whipping his head around with a heavy snort.

"Ah, that's not how you eat, by the way..." You hum innocently, and again, your wolf gives you an almost human reaction, flattening his ears back as he seems to glare at you for a moment, before lapping at the food, curling his tongue around to eat the bits of veggies and meat.

"Oh, I'd love to keep you, but you don't belong here, fella." You say, scratching his ear softly in an affectionate way. Your skin crawls when you hear a mournful howl travel from the forest, across the fields, and into your house.

Your wolf whimpers and looks at you.

"As soon as you're ready, I'll sneak you back out to the woods." You promise him.

"I won't let anyone hurt you."

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He looked out from the treeline, his glowing white eyes staring out from the darkness.

A large, fluffy animal--a gorgeous white wolf, fur stained with mud--sidled up next to him, ears flattened back.

"Still no sign of him?" He sighed, frustrated.

The wolf whimpered, his tail tucking and nose dipping towards the ground in a response that seemed to say "no".

"Damn it!" The man roared, his fists balling tight as he began to pace angrily.

"Still no sign of your third?" A deep voice rumbled from the trees.

He lifted his gaze to spot him in all his imposing glory--Khonshu; god of the night sky, the moon, justice and many things in-between. His lithe frame ominously perched on the limb of an ancient, thick tree. One of his legs dangled down while the other supported his arm, his dominant hand clutching his staff in a tight-fisted grip as he stared down at him.

But mostly, he was his fist of vengeance. He was dispensing justice against those who imposed their will on the weak; like the other Englishmen who oppressed the local populace with their threats of jail, execution...

He also had to deal with bandits. Bandits, constantly seemed to prey upon travelers trying to find better places to live, to eke out a livelihood to support their families.

But right now, he was on edge.

He was incomplete. He was missing a vital part of himself. Someone he would not be able to fully function without.

Finally, his tongue unglued itself from the roof of his mouth and allowed him to speak.

"No."

"He is alive. I can feel it." Khonshu sighed, almost sounding bored. "You and your wolves... Sometimes they are a gift... other times it is a curse."

It was true... there weren't many of his kind left, and they were useful as a commodity, but also a vast hindrance if they were separated. Very few were born after being hunted to near extinction, and even fewer still were bitten and turned.

He tipped his head to the side, "He will come back. But until then, we have work to do. There is a group of soldiers that have taken women and children from their homes. I'm sure you can deduce what it is that they intend to do to them. I want you to stop them and set their captives free." Khonshu tapped his staff against the thick bark of the tree, and in a sharp breeze, he vanished.

"Right..." He said, his throat tight; his body thrumming with anxiety, his hand shaking immensely at the strain of lacking such a vital part of himself. He wondered still, if he would be able to control himself, to hold himself back without him.

His wolf companion moved forward, nudging his snout into the palm of his hand, whimpering softly.

Sparing one last glance over the countryside, he made a hefty sigh.

"Where the hell are you?"

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Pt. 2: I will get to it eventually, I swear you guys

Extra super late author's note:

Yeah it's gonna be at least one or two more parts. I am gonna split it up to ease on the scrolling time for you guys! That and it feels neater than cramming so many lazy time skips into one post. I am going to get the rest of my drafts cleared (hopefully) and begin eating away some of those asks I have piled up in my inbox (that Tumblr didn't manage to delete by some miracle...)

My trip might be postponed, dealing with a lot at home, like me almost burning the house down today and almost passing out from the damn smoke because wooooo fire is bad

If I didn't have bad luck, I'd have none whatsoever!

[whereserpentswalk]

You've died and gone to the afterlife. Nobody knows if it's hell or heaven, though some people are very insistent that it's one or the other or neither. There's probably another afterlife, only about forty percent of souls end up where you are.

It's not so bad. You have a new human body down here, or it's sort of human, it's this slender sexless thing, agelessly trapped as a young adult forever. It doesn't look like you, people's afterlife bodies all have diffrent faces just like their earth bodies, but they aren't the faces they had on earth. It's weird, you don't look like you, don't feel like you, you're not sure who you are down here away from everything. You had just reached your thirties in your old body, and somehow you moss the marks of age this body will never have. You somehow miss the ability to gain weight, the scars you used to have, that you'd have to mutilate yourself to have again. It's strange to call yourself a millennial in an ageless body, strange to wear a dress over a flat chest, strange to wonder what you even count as now in so many categories.

It's strange how this world mirrors the last. People still have to use currency, still have to go to work, and still have to eat and drink and sleep. Nobody really runs this place outside of the governments the humans here have set up, so that's the best you can do. Wealth doesn't transfer over but skills and prestige do. You sang for a living on earth so you ended up doing the same here. You're able to afford an apartment in one of the big cities, it's safer there than out in the plains with their strange unearthlike grass, or the deserts of white sand, or marshlands of pale liquid. At least the cities have actual societies, outside of them there are bandits and warlords, and nobody knows what happens when you die in the afterlife.

But then there are those strangely alien parts of this world. The entities here, some feral like animals or plants, that are your only food source. But others are as smart as humans, yet far stranger and alien in their appearance and behavior, some think they're angels or demons, or something else. Sometimes you'll see one and it'll be scary, or it'll be so alien to interact with them. But other times they seem just like another type of person here. You also realize it's always night here, sometimes it feels like it's almost morning or like the sun just set, but it's always dark, and always a bit cold. There aren't even things in the sky, no moon, and no stars.

You know why the people who think it's heaven think it's heaven. There are neighborhoods nicer than yourse, and this world isn't free of soldiers or politicians or businesses owners no more than it's free of laborers or starving artists. Its especially weird how it works with time, the current president of your city used to be a king of Sparta, you're pretty sure your boss was born before agriculture was invented. People don't even know what the right religion is, even though the dead are supposed to find that out. All of the faiths have to work differently here of course, but they still work. There's a college a few blocks downtown from you where the original Buddha is one of the professors of philosophy, you wonder sometimes what someone like that can think of this place.

What's weirdest is just that life goes on. There are people who died as children who basically had their entire lives here. And people who have just done more things here than they ever did on earth. There are writers here still publishing new work, like Dante and Mary Shelly, there are people here who regret their pasts, people here whose regret doesn't matter, people here whose past doesn't matter.

Your new roommate took here own life about ten years before you were born, even though you died when you were older than she ever got to be on earth. You're considered to be part of the same community just for having died within a hundred years of eachother. You always expected people to kill themselves to be punished wherever they go, but she's not, you think she's trying to appreciate her life down here, it's all she'll ever have. And people are always so nice to her when they find out how she died. You're not sure what that means for you, you died in a pretty boring way. But it doesn't feel over though yet, you don't want to resign yourself to only knowing your past.

You sometimes think this is purgatory. Perhaps the people who didn't go here don't have an afterlife at all. If there is a hell, you can at least appreciate that you aren't there. But if there is a heaven, like the heavens they talk about, where all everyone does is sing, and look back down at earth, and remember who they were, than perhaps it is a worse place to be than where you are now.

[marlsswrites]

June 29th <3

Blooming - @wolfstarmicrofic - words: 1075

Sirius had a great life in his opinion, his best friend James owned a flower store, he had an amazing job in a tattoo parlour where he got to show off his designs and people actually appreciated them for once.

In his breaks, he ran over to the road to torment James while he worked, mostly just because he could.

He walked into the store, admiring the blooming flowers before walking over to the desk to find his friend, the problem was, no one was there.

Normally it would be James, or occasionally his coworker Mary behind the counter, but neither were present.

With a sigh, he dropped himself behind on the chair behind the desk, stubbornly waiting for James to come back instead of just waiting. He rested his head on the palm of his hand as his eyes travelled around the store, the only people present being a sweet old couple and a pretty depressed looking teenager who looked rather out of place.

He snorted to himself and peeled his eyes away from the shop and towards the door when the bell rung, a man talking quickly into a phone as he walked in.

Sirius could feel his lips part, his cheeks go a prominent flushed pink and his grey eyes widen at the sight. He hadn’t seen the man before, but he was beautiful.

He had tanned skin and a rugged complexion. He had scars adorning his arms and scratched onto his face, but it made him look even more perfect. It just made Sirius wonder how many more of those he’s got hidden right now.

The man was wearing an oversized sweater with its sleeves rolled up, he lifted his arm to scratch his neck, revealing a strip of skin on his waist that made Sirius go feral. There was a tattoo peaking out of the sleeve of his jumper, it looked like the moon phases.

Sirius doesn’t care if this is a based comment, but tattoos make a man even more attractive.

“Yes- no Lily I understand!” The man hissed into the phone and sighed. “You’re breaking up.” He spoke on a croakier voice. “Y-es b- bye!”

Sirius watched as the man pressed the hang up button and stuffed the phone in the pocket of his jeans.

The man looked around the store a couple times, Sirius keeping a sharp eye on him until he started walking straight towards Sirius.

“Shit.” He cursed under his breath as he knocked a small plant pot over on James’ desk, mud spilling on some of the papers. He snorted slightly as he looked down, seeing James’ little comic book sketches as he swiped the mud from the desk.

“Hi uh-“ The man started as Sirius leaned on the desk, staring at him contently. “What flowers do you have for a wedding?”

“You’re getting married?” Sirius fought off a frown.

He laughed, the gorgeous stranger laughed such a sweet deep laugh that Sirius wanted to devour. “Ah no, I’m planning my best friends wedding and she’s going absolutely manic about it.”

“Guessing that was what the fake hanging up earlier was then.” He breathed out with a laugh.

“I see you were watching me.” The man spoke with a raised eyebrow as he leaned closer on the desk.

A pink flush started to rise up his neck as he blinked a few times, in utter shock. He could see the man’s face more clearly now, he has a collection of freckles atop his nose and long black eyelashes. He had plump pink lips that he licked every few seconds and he stunk of cigarettes. Perfect for Sirius, someone to match his smoking addiction.

“Maybe.” He shrugged. “I’m Sirius.” He gave a stupid grin.

The strangers lips tilted up into a small smile. “Remus.”

Remus, Sirius repeated in his head. Remus, Remus, Re-

“So, the flowers?” He asked with a nod.

Truth be told, Sirius knew nothing about flowers. Which ones they used at weddings, funerals, dates, birthday parties? He didn’t have a clue. “I-“

The door swung open, a flushed looking James running in and skidding up to the desk. “Sirius- what are you doing back there?”

Sirius froze, the other man giving him a questing look as James ushered Sirius from his seat and sitting down there with a coffee and a cinnamon bun. “Where’s Mary?” James asked, his mouth full of a bite of his cinnamon roll.

“No one was here when I got here.” Sirius spoke quietly.

“Sirius you’re my best friend, but you don’t even work here.” He spoke in an amused voice. “Why are you even serving customers? You hate doing that.”

James looked around, his eyes planting on Remus. “Ah.” He tried and failed to cover his smile.

“That makes much more sense…” Remus gestured to Sirius’ leather jacket, arm of tattoos and his eyeliner covered eyes. Most definitely not the guy you’d find working at a flower shop.

He reached up, scratching the back of his neck and tilting his head to the side, unaware of Remus’ gaze lingering where his cropped tank top ended. “Yeah, I work at the tattoo parlour over the road.”

With one last amused glance between the two men, James stood up and started organising the flowers, clearly only trying to give his friend some privacy.

“You do?” He asked in interest. “I’ve been looking at getting some new ones done., I’ll have to pop around some time.” He pulled his sweater up ever so slightly to reveal a collection of tree branches weaved with vines, on the other side a moon with some birds flying around it.

Sirius sucked in a probably audible breath, Remus was toned. Like really fit, he had more scars wrapping around his stomach, his tattoos smartly covering them, only visible if you looked closely. Sirius was definitely looking very closely. “Yeah-“ he stuttered out. “I could do you sometime.”

“Oh really?”

“I- I didn’t mean it like that.”

“What a shame.” Remus tutted, his lips quirking at his flushed he managed to make Sirius. “If you change your mind.” He slid a piece of paper onto James’ desk. Sirius looked down, swiping the paper from the desk and reading the number on it, then looking up to see Remus gone.

He never did get his flowers, Sirius grinned at the excuse to message him as he whipped out his phone and tapped the number in.

[aconflagrationofmyown]

Marie Presley, interview for Rolling Stone Magazine, 1997, introducing her film TLC: The Presley Way

A Sarge & lil Mama blurb, 2nd generation: Marie. word count 2k, PG rating, mentions of divorce

Marie: “You know, I’m used to being asked how it impacted me being the child with the least ‘parental involvement.’ But I really don’t get it, not even when my siblings joke that Elvis was more like Santa to me than dad, a merry-making stranger who showed up once in a blue moon to spread love and cheer before rushing back to the workshop to make more goodies the rest of the year.

“Maybe there’s some truth in that but how was I to know? I didn’t know anything differently than what I had, just like lots of kids you don’t know what else you could’ve had, just like I didn’t know anything different from being very privileged, um, just as my dad didn’t know any different from being very poor.

“But what I do know is that I was very loved, I have been my whole life, and what I have are a treasure trove of memories, extensive amounts of time spent with him at all ages. I look at it this way, we wouldn’t say someone is fatherless just because their dad is gone every day of their life from seven in the morning to six in the evening, that’s a whole lotta time to be gone.

“Whereas I had months on end where I saw Dad from sunup to sundown, slept in my parents bed, ate and played and read with them. Spent time on homework and perhaps most personally impactful, I had my own interests nurtured by them. Dad spoiled me, there’s no question about it, but it wasn’t in the way of rich men giving their kids toys and telling them to then run along, leave them alone.

“Dad engaged with me on everything and anything interesting to me, anything that interested my siblings he would spend hours on it, not even the fun part of say -photography. But the boring details, too. If there was a new camera he would get it for me and together we could figure out how to make it work, how to develop the film, how to get the perfect exposure.

“We’d pour over artists' work and do our best to mimic them. It was play but it was always constructive, and when I think back on those late Vegas afternoons that were his mornings, that he would spend tirelessly engaged with me and my siblings, only to then have to go out and perform multiple times into the night, the adult in me is exhausted and grateful that he took the time. That he did it all so cheerfully that I had no idea how worn out he was.

“The divorce years were hard, I was an eight year old and definitely attuned to the different dynamics in my family. I was very close with my sister Ella who was extremely unhappy at the time, maybe more so than most of my siblings. So her discontent rubbed off on me a little, confused me. But for the most part I didn’t notice a big change, mom and daddy really tried to keep it under wraps, multiple times they insisted there wasn’t a team to pick, and maybe that was too nuanced for the older kids but I got it, I chose not to pick teams.

And before it had lasted very long, we were all back together again.

“Daddy didn’t have a tour, what with Colonel Parker being under investigation, and he stayed home because of Danny, and Daisy and then they got remarried. It was a blip for me really. I got to live with Ella, I got to travel around with Jesse and dad, I got to visit Rosalee out at college. It seemed more like a vacation bouncing than banishment. I was really fine with it, maybe I’m just built that way, it wasn’t as devastating as it might’ve been for another child.

“I do remember my ninth birthday being the single bummer of it all. Or at least, the day started off going decidedly down hill.

“I was the baby who made it after the tragedy of them losing Jo, and you beat believe dad always made a huge deal of my birthday. He’d always tickle the Angel kisses on the back of my neck and remind everyone how Jo and Gladys sent me, mama would recount the story of my birth and my siblings would recall how they laid hands on mama’s belly and prayed I’d come out safe every day for eight months before I was born.

So after nine years of this, when I came downstairs in ‘77 to find that the earth and divorce proceedings hadn’t screeched to a stop just to celebrate me, I was pretty miffed.

I remember just feeling like the vibes were really off at the house, even though dad had come back to celebrate, it was obvious he was very upset with mom. I remember Jesse took me riding on his bike that day, we got out of the house and had fun and I remember when he put me on it, mom and dad were in a deep discussion on the porch, apparently about the fact that I was having a meltdown over not being treated special enough. I've already admitted I was very spoiled, OK folks?

“But the real big thing for me was that by the time I came back from that ride and opened my presents and we ate dinner, things seemed perfectly fine, normal and natural. That night we went through our usual routine and I climbed in the bed with mom and dad like old times. Now that I think about it, that was probably the first time in months that they slept together, and they did that for me. And they did it so naturally and it was really a happy evening, even for them, I think.

“It’s funny how professional you can get at getting along when you’ve had to endure so much like they had, one night of harmony in the middle of a divorce wasn’t a big hurdle for them. There was so much love still there and so much practice, just a lotta confusion. You can see why I wasn’t very surprised when Mama showed up with a baby and a wedding band back on her finger. It might sound bizarre to outsiders, and it’s certainly been portrayed like that by some of our closest friends, but in this film I’d like to set the record straight. It’s what I saw lived out.

Love can be very chaotic sometimes, complex and bizarre but it tries its best. It seeks the good of others. It’s the catalyst for great things and produces generous hearts. And my family certainly did just that.”

Thanks for letting me bug ya with a blurb, and slowly but surely I’m putting faces to the kids, and their stories too. So much thanks goes to my girlies who hash this out with my for hours on end in the chats. The chats are the new trenches, ok? It’s where ya make your Bestest buddies.

@paradsol000

@eliseinmemphis

@prompted-wordsmith

@ab4eva

@foreverdolly

@powerofelvis

@butlersxbirdy

@crash-and-cure

@elvisabutler

@heartbrake-hotel

@stylespresleyhearted

@thatbanditqueen

@crazymadpassionatelove

@myradiaz

@ash-omalley

@arianatheangelgirl

@steph-speaks

@burningloverdoll

@angelface-555

@lookingforrainbows

@missmaywemeetagain

@coolgirl462

@kingdomforapony

@18lkpeters

@richardslady121

@from-memphis-with-love

@lillypink

@artlover8992

@pennyroyalcreep

@notstefaniepresley

@ellie-24

@renaissingle

@waiting4brucewayne2adoptme

@presleyenterprise

@marriedtopresley

@ashtag2887

@dkayfixates

@vampireindistress

@ashtag6887

@i-r-i-n-a-a

@obsessedvibee

@peskybedtime

@goth-cowgirl-03

@stephthestallion

@fav-fanficssss

@loving-elvis

@honeyorangess

@soloangel

@xenaspace3-blog

@60svintage

[vomits0cutely]

James was definitely the person everyone wanted to be, everyone definitely adored him. Even when they didn’t want to

For example:

Remus: “this bloody chatterbox can’t understand I don’t want to talk to him, just let me sleep before we get to the new school” *James trying to befriend him immediately not mentioning his scars at all* “ig him talking is something that’s somewhat tolerable”

Lily: “James is a git. He doesn’t know how to get that someone people just don’t like him!” *sees James helping Remus after a full moon* “oh.. well ig he ain’t that bad”

Regulus: “Potter is a rude egotistical man who stole my brother and thinks he’s amazing. Well he’s not.” *mets James in the astronomy tower and James calms his down from his panic attack* “nvm then..”

Barty: “who’s this Gryffindor freak who’s all smiley all the time?” *sees James helping Pandora and Mary get away from a touchy stranger* “well ig his smile ain’t bad so why not show it off ig?”

Tbh there could be more

[karinta-agogobell-unified]

Five underappreciated anime that I would recommend!

1. Canaan (2009)

This is, from what I understand, an adaptation of a side-story chapter for the visual novel series 428: Shibuya Scramble, guest-written by Nasu Kinoko and guest-illustrated by Takeuchi Takashi. That is to say, the Type-Moon guys — the creators of Tsukihime, Kara no Kyoukai, and the now-legendary Fate/Stay Night. However, Canaan doesn’t take place in the Type-Moon shared universe(s), since it’s for another company’s property.

That being said, the anime adaptation is quite comprehensible on its own terms, likely due to the adaptation being written by the prolific and highly skilled screenwriter Okada Mari (Hanasaku Iroha, O Maidens In Your Savage Season, Mobile Suit Gundam: Iron-Blooded Orphans, Maquia). Her writing imbues the narrative with enough emotional intensity to make up for the occasionally-convoluted nature of the plot, and the backstories of the characters are hinted at just enough so that the viewer can understand their relevance, without taking up too much precious screen time. It can be a little hard to follow at points, but I ended up understanding it decently well anyway.

The production values are very high indeed, due to the anime being produced by P.A. Works, and directed by Andoh Masahiro (Sword of the Stranger, Hanasaku Iroha, O Maidens In Your Savage Season). The action animation is consistently stunning, the characters are beautifully expressive, and the overall look of the show is fantastic.

And the voice acting is an absolute treat, with the lead role of Canaan herself taken by Sawashiro Miyuki, the antagonist role of Alphard taken by Sakamoto Maaya, and Nanjou Yoshino in the role of Oosawa Maria, the POV character for a lot of the story. The supporting voice cast is packed with talent too — Hamada Kenji, Tanaka Rie, Nakata Jouji, Tomatsu Haruka, Hirata Hiroaki, Noto Mamiko, and even Ootsuka Akio in a minor role!

The premise is sort of a science fiction type of thing, but set in the (quasi-)contemporary location of 2000s China, where outside of the sci-fi conceit, the setting is largely realistic. The tone and mood is mostly that of an action thriller, with some nail-biting suspense here and there, but there are some beautifully soft and tender moments as well — often involving Canaan and Maria. Yes, folks, this has yuri in it, although it’s (strongly) subtextual.

Anyway, I would recommend this to people who love Ghost in the Shell: Stand Alone Complex, Kara no Kyoukai, Fate/Zero, and probably also Cowboy Bebop.

2. Tetsuwan Birdy OVAs (1996)

This is distinct from the later adaptation of the original Tetsuwan Birdy (Birdy the Mighty) manga, called Tetsuwan Birdy Decode, which came out in the late 2000s — this one came out in 1996 and was produced by Studio Madhouse in their prime.

The main characters are Senkawa Tsutomu (voiced by Iwanaga Tetsuya), a hapless teenager who gets accidentally killed(!) by an alien spaceship on his way to school one day, and Birdy Cephon Altirra (voiced by Mitsuishi Kotono), a human-looking alien and an intergalactic government agent who saves Tsutomu by merging her body with his. Effectively, they become two people in one body, which can shift between the forms of Birdy and Tsutomu…. except Birdy still needs to deal with all the rogue aliens who threaten the safety of the galaxy, while Tsutomu needs to study for his high school entrance exams. From what I’ve been told, the premise is fairly reminiscent of Ultraman and other classic tokusatsu series.

It’s four tight episodes of classic ‘90s OVA goodness, with a fun and slightly silly sci-fi concept that is nonetheless wrung for some surprisingly effective drama at times. The main thrust of it, though, is action comedy — and it definitely delivers on that front. The fight scenes are superbly animated, including some early-career work from now-legendary animator Suzuki Norimitsu, and the character designs by Takahashi Kumiko (Witch Hunter Robin, Snow White with the Red Hair, Cardcaptor Sakura) are amazingly expressive. Birdy’s striking asymmetrical design is a particular favourite of mine. The direction by Kawajiri Yoshiaki (Cyber City Oedo 808, Ninja Scroll, Vampire Hunter D) is solid, and the writing is quite serviceable despite the brevity and premise.

Overall, I wouldn’t say it’s much of an intellectual watch, but if you just want a fun action-comedy ride with an extremely charismatic female protagonist and stunning animation quality, Tetsuwan Birdy is likely to be your jam. I’d recommend it to people who enjoy classic tokusatsu series, the original ‘90s Sailor Moon anime, and the less-depressing parts of Neon Genesis Evangelion.

3. Noir (2001)

This anime series is perhaps not as underappreciated as the others on this list, but I do still feel that not enough people have seen it. It was made by the studio Bee Train, and it’s the first entry in their so-called “Girls with Guns” trilogy (which isn’t actually a coherent trilogy, since they’re three different stories). The series was made right at the end of the cel-anime era, before the transition to digital colouring and compositing, so the masters were shot on film, but it was also made at the beginning of the slow transition to widescreen TV broadcasts, so it’s one of the very rare cel anime that’s in 16:9. This allows for a beautifully detailed look that, IMO, serves to offset the occasionally-limited animation and the frequent re-use of footage.

The premise is basically “secret assassins in France are caught up in weird intrigue and conspiracies”; as such, there’s a lot of very fun gunplay and kickass fight scenes, but also a lot of suspense and mystery. The writing is a little bit slipshod at times, but it ends up holding together, and the characters and (especially) the fantastically moody vibe make the show worth watching.

The characters are imbued with a lot of life and colour, both by their extremely attractive designs and by their voice actors’ wonderful performances. Mireille Bouquet, a young Corsican assassin and one of the two protagonists, is voiced by Mitsuishi Kotono; Yuumura Kirika, the other main protagonist who is a Japanese schoolgirl who has seemingly lost all her memories (but not her exceptional assassin skills), is voiced by Kuwashima Houko; and the mysterious Chloe, who shows up partway through the show, is voiced by Hisakawa Aya. There are definite yuri vibes between Mireille and Kirika, but as with Canaan, it’s all subtextual.

The main draw of the show, though, is its phenomenal soundtrack, courtesy of Kajiura Yuki (.hack//Sign, Kara no Kyoukai, Fate/Zero, Sword Art Online, Demon Slayer) in her very first anime scoring gig. It’s at times propulsive, at times dark and moody, at times beautifully serene, at times melancholy and nostalgic — and it’s utterly memorable.

I would recommend Noir to anyone who likes Canaan, Witch Hunter Robin, Ghost in the Shell, or anyone who just wishes that James Bond were a woman.

4. Flip Flappers (2016)

This anime was produced at Studio 3Hz and directed by Oshiyama Kiyotaka, in a dazzling yet underappreciated directorial debut that was presaged by his impressive animation work on Dennou Coil, Space Dandy, A Letter to Momo, The Secret World of Arietty, and The Wind Rises. Owing to this extremely solid animation background, Oshiyama was able to recruit a lot of prime animation talent for Flip Flappers, and it definitely shows in the stunning sakuga of the wild action sequences that pepper the show’s narrative.

While the fantastic animation is a key draw of this show, the sheer creativity in the worldbuilding, conceptual, and visual design spheres also contribute to its inimitably psychedelic look and feel. The landscapes of the worlds contained in Pure Illusion — the dream-realm that the protagonists enter each episode at the behest of a mysterious scientific organisation — and of the “real” world are whimsical, storybook-like, and slightly “off” in a slightly unsettling but compelling way.

The dreamlike atmosphere pervades the narrative as well — very little about the mechanics of the world is specified out loud, relying heavily on symbolism and visual storytelling to do the heavy lifting for the audience’s understanding. This might be a turn-off for audiences who prefer to have things spelled out for them clearly, but the point of this story is not always to make perfect logical sense, but rather to work on an emotional and metaphorical level. And work, it certainly does.

The episodic structure involving the various worlds of Pure Illusion explores the concept of the Umwelt (the individual sensory “world” of a person or organism), as well as some Jungian concepts and archetypes, in order to express the strange and sometimes-scary developmental stage of adolescence. The characters of Cocona (voiced by Takahashi Minami) and Papika (voiced by Ichimichi Mao) undergo a metaphorical and literal puberty, a coming-of-age similar in some ways to that experienced by the protagonist of FLCL, but with significantly more yuri. In fact, this show has the most outright yuri of any of the anime on this list. But that isn’t very strange for what is essentially a psychedelic magical-girl show: lots of magical-girl anime seem to include homoerotic vibes in some form or another, from Sailor Moon to Nanoha to Madoka.

There are some minor flaws in the storytelling towards the end, IMO, but overall it’s a wonderfully impactful emotional journey to watch Flip Flappers. Plus, the OP and ED are both extraordinarily catchy tunes that I’ve found myself humming on many an occasion.

I’d recommend this anime to anyone who loves weird magical-girl stuff, weird yuri, and/or amazing action animation.

5. Claymore (2007)

An adaptation of the manga by Yagi Norihiro, this anime is considered by many to simply be “basic”, or at least simply “inferior to the manga”. Now. I haven’t read the original Claymore manga (yet! I plan to eventually), but I found this anime to be compelling nonetheless. And if it really is the case that the manga is better, then I definitely look forward to diving in.

Having been produced by Studio Madhouse in the mid-2000s, it’s unsurprising that the vast majority of this anime was outsourced to Korean animation studio DR Movie, a longtime powerhouse subcontractor for both Japanese and American animation alike. That said, the direction of Tanaka Hiroyuki (director of a portion of Hellsing Ultimate and frequent close collaborator of Attack on Titan director Araki Tetsurou) remains sharp, compensating for the sometimes-limited animation with good storyboarding and a strong sense of mood and atmosphere.

Another aspect of Claymore which helps make up for the occasional visual shortcomings is the soundtrack by Takumi Masanori. The compositions are a mix of harder rock and electronic elements with a strong orchestral backbone, as befits a dark-fantasy setting and mood — the faster pieces are edgy and propulsive, very appropriate for the bloody action scenes, and the calmer pieces have a melancholic beauty to them that sticks in one’s memory. I wish the soundtrack were on Spotify, but alas, it is not.

The other sonic element that helps this anime out immensely is its absolutely STACKED voice cast. The main character, Clare, is voiced by Kuwashima Houko, in a fantastic yet understated performance. The other main character, Raki, is voiced by the less-well-known Takagi Motoki, but nearly all the other roles — including many bit parts — are filled with industry legends. Teresa is voiced by Park Romi, Miria is voiced by Inoue Kikuko, Irene is voiced by Takayama Minami, Rubel is voiced by Hirata Hiroaki, Priscilla is voiced by Hisakawa Aya, Ophelia is voiced by Shinohara Emi, and Jean (whom I cannot help but ship with Clare: there’s so much homoerotic tension there!) is voiced by none other than Mitsuishi Kotono. Yes, they got three of the original Sailor Senshi VAs — and I don’t know why that’s funny to me, but it is. And all of the voice actors deliver killer performances.

The premise of the show, before I completely forget to explain it, is that of a dark fantasy world where demons called youma ravage human settlements, with only the titular Claymores to protect humanity. They are a guild of platinum-haired and silver-eyed warrior women who possess superhuman fighting abilities, due to the fact that they’ve been fused with youma essence, and wield the massive broadswords that give them their name. Basically, (s)he who fights monsters must become (partly) a monster to do so.

I’ve heard the vibe of Claymore compared to manga like Berserk, and I don’t know how true that is (not having read the latter for myself), but there’s certainly a lot of bleakness and monstrosity in this fantasy tale. However, the Claymore manga was published in none other than Weekly Shounen Jump, so it’s perhaps unsurprising that the story remains resolutely forward-looking, the protagonists’ arcs focussing on the power of grit, determination, true friendship and loyalty, and protection of the weak and downtrodden. It’s never cynical or sarcastic — always straightforward and sincere despite the frequent darkness of the story.

The writing is consistently solid, even through the controversial anime-original ending (the manga continues long past the point where the anime cut things off), so I’m not sure who to point to for that: Yagi Norihiro for writing the original material, or Kobayashi Yuuko (JoJo’s Bizarre Adventure, Attack on Titan s1-3, Kakegurui, Casshern Sins) for adapting it cleanly for the screen? Either way, it made me want to read the manga to experience more of these compelling characters and their travails.

I would recommend this anime to those who enjoy Kill La Kill or RWBY, or just to those who enjoy powerful women hacking at monsters with massive weapons and making lots of blood spray out.

[godstielcult]

How Childhood Abuse and Trauma Affected Dean Winchester in Adulthood in Supernatural

Supernatural was a television series that spanned fifteen years from 2005 to 2020 created by Eric Kripke that premiered on The WB, now known as The CW (“Supernatural”). Kripke took inspiration from his own life by making family the prime aspect of Supernatural since family was a central part in his upbringing while also incorporating elements of classic Americana from Jack Kerouac’s On the Road and Neil Gaiman’s American Gods and supernatural lore (Rome). The show, Supernatural, followed the brothers Sam (Jared Padalecki) and Dean Winchester (Jensen Ackles) as they continued in their father’s footsteps hunting monsters, creatures, deities, and a multitude of other things that went bump in the night while also attempting to stop the next apocalypse. On top of diving into lore from diverse cultures, religions, and the occult, Supernatural at its heart focused on familial bonds and dynamics. When looking at the central characters of the show, it is evident that Dean Winchester struggles with copious amounts of trauma from his childhood and adolescent years that he still carries onto well into his adulthood (“Supernatural”).

Early Childhood

The first episode of the series is where most of Dean’s trauma stems from. In the flashback from “Pilot,” Dean is around four years old while Sam is six months old. In the flashback, their parents, John and Mary Winchester, put them both down for the night before they themselves head to bed after Dean says goodnight to his little brother. They both part ways with Mary sleeping in what is their bedroom and John sleeping in the easy chair downstairs, which signifies their already strained and far from perfect marriage that Dean mentions in “Dark Side of the Moon.,” before Mary stirs out from her slumber, hearing Sam’s cries from the baby monitor. When she goes to check on him, she notices a tall figure in the room that she assumes is her husband before heading downstairs to turn off the television that is still on. There she finds John fast asleep in the easy chair. After the realization that there is a stranger in Sam’s room, Mary races to the nursery where she is murdered and set aflame by the yellow eyed demon after John enters the nursery from hearing his wife’s screams. After the fire breaks out, John hands Dean his brother and tells him to get out of the house while he attempts to save Mary before leaving the house himself and joining his children as they watch their old life fade away into the flames of the fire.

The death of his mother to Dean is the first traumatic event he vividly experiences. Her death is not only traumatic to him by the close relationship they had, but also with it shattering the sense of safety, security, and love he had felt and experienced before that night. This event is the result of other traumas in his life, such as forcing him to grow up quickly to become a caregiver to his brother, exposing him the harsh realities of poverty, and having to emotionally support his father through his trauma of losing his wife and the horrors that came with the new life John thrusted them into. This event results in Dean experiencing parentification, abuse and neglect, and mental illness.

Parentification is the result of forcing children to take on adult roles that they are not well suited to handle. Children can become parentified if one of their parents were neglected or abused, they abuse different substances, or a traumatic event has happened. There are two types of parentification: instrumental and emotional. Instrumental parentification happens when a child is instructed to do certain tasks, which are not age appropriate for them, by their parent. This includes and is not limited to taking care of younger siblings and providing for the family in some way. Emotional parentification happens when the parent of the child expects them to fulfill their emotional needs. Examples of this behavior can be parents ranting about their marital problems to their children. This form of abuse is constant throughout the entirety of Dean’s childhood (Lewis). 

In Supernatural, Dean experienced parentification constantly during his upbringing, even before Mary’s death and John throwing them into the hunting life. The first time the audience sees Dean subject to this is in “Dark Side of the Moon.” After John calls Mary, during the time he moved out for a few days after one of their previous spats, Dean comforts and tends to the emotional needs of his mother after seeing the look on her face after hanging up the phone (“Dark Side of the Moon”). This scene singlehandedly shows the parentification of Dean with him comforting his mother, when she most needed it, after the conversation she had with her husband due to him emotionally tearing her down rather than fulfilling her emotionally. Dean, his son, had to take that place to clean up his mess and provide his mother with the emotional fulfillment she needed (Lewis). Parentification is displayed throughout the episode “Something Wicked.” In “Something Wicked,” Sam and Dean investigate an old case their father had left behind for them, that brings back painful memories from when Dean was a child. When John was hunting the shtriga, a type of witch, Dean was left alone to look after his little brother to make sure nothing would harm him while John was out. This included Dean being responsible for a sawed-off shotgun in case something would attack Sam while his father was gone when he was around eight years old. Being the typical kid, he eventually became bored of just hanging around in the dingy motel room they were staying at and decided to stretch his legs and grab a soda before returning to the room where he finds his father killing the witch before yelling at him and blaming him for not being there to protect his brother when he was only a kid (“Something Wicked”). Despite him being just a child when this occurred, John blames and continues to blame him for this for years for not being there to take care of his brother when it is not his responsibility to be taking care of and parenting a child when he is only a child himself. This brings to light that Dean never really had a childhood or was a kid when he was growing up with having to be there to take care of his brother at a small age as well as both of his parents, which John mentions in the episode “In My Time of Dying.” John states that on the first hunts he went on, he would come back a mess from what he had seen on his most recent hunt. However, Dean was the one that was always there to comfort him and emotionally fulfill him, which gets into more of the emotional parentification from his father that Dean experienced as a small child (“In My Time of Dying”). Through the use of parentification in the show, it is clear that Sam and Dean were neglected as young children.

 In the episode “Dead in the Water,” Sam and Dean investigate a series of unnatural drownings from Lake Manitoc in Wisconsin. While investigating what could be the cause of all the drownings, they pose as wildlife officers and ask the sheriff and several other people about what has happened in the town to cause something of this destruction. When asking the sheriff peculiar questions about the drownings, they meet the sheriff’s daughter and grandson. Upon getting acquainted with the two, they find out Andrea’s husband was one of the victims and her mute son Lucas was the one that saw what happened to his father and communicates to others using drawings. By the end of the episode, the brothers find out Andrea’s father and one of the drowned victims kept a secret from them about a boy they knew and had inevitably drowned from their involvement, which resulted in the young boy becoming a vengeful spirit to right wrongs of the past and make them feel what his mother had to go through emotionally with his death. In this episode, Dean opens up about the night his mother died to Lucas to give him someone who understood what he was feeling and thinking that he himself was not granted when his mother passed. Also in this episode, the audience finds out that much like Lucas, Dean also had trouble communicating after the death of his mother, which John documents in his hunting journal. (“Dead in the Water”) Dean’s mutism after the death of his mother could be a result of trying to repress the memory and avoid reliving that night.

Sigmund Freud, the founder of psychoanalysis and talk therapy, is credited with his proposed theory of defense mechanisms. Most of his work is discredited by most psychologists except for defense mechanisms and his three stems of the mind known as the id, ego, and superego, which psychologists that take a psychodynamic approach in their field accept without believing in Freud’s motivational drive caused by aggression and sex. The defense mechanisms include repression, regression, reaction formation, projection, rationalization, displacement, sublimation, and denial. Regression refers retreating to a former stage of development, according to Freud this would be regression of the psychosexual stages (Meyers 557-563). This perspective shifts as the Neo-Freudians believe in different motivational drives compared to Freud’s sexual and aggressive based one. According to Karen Horney, the motivational drive is people’s desires for love and security. Looking at her perspective when looking at the defense mechanisms as a whole can be the result of wanting to be perceived favorably to obtain that love and security (Meyers 565-566). In Supernatural, regression occurs in the episode “Dead in the Water” as a result of Dean regressing in his development by becoming mute after the death of his mother to avoid as much anxiety surrounding the and to avoid becoming a burden to his father by having to take care of his emotional needs. Repression also ties into this with Dean avoiding and repressing what happened to his mother by not talking about it with not having the luxury to talk about this major change in his life due to him having to fulfill those needs for his father (Meyers 557-563).

In the episode “A Very Supernatural Christmas,” Sam and Dean investigate a series of murders that involve people being dragged through the chimney with hardly a trace left behind. In the season this episode is in, Dean sells his soul to save his brother’s life. This causes him to want to celebrate one last Christmas before his soul is dragged all the way to Hell by the hellhounds. Throughout this episode, flashbacks of Sam and Dean celebrating Christmas when they were children occur and contradict the Norman Rockwell Christmas Dean dreams of having as a last hurrah. Due to John’s neglect, both Sam and Dean were never granted the commercialized Christmas, but made do on their own (“A Very Supernatural Christmas”). This is also due to Sam and dean living in poverty. Evidence has proven that poverty is related to child abuse and neglect. The effects of poverty can also be transferred to children in that situation due to it affecting their parents and caretakers. Fathers in families affected by poverty tend to be less emotionally involved in their children’s lives, which can have a drastic effect to be much worse with the greater persistence of poverty (Leverich 72-74) This affects Dean and his brother with their father being more emotionally distant and physically distant from them. This also affects them with not being provided with adequate living conditions with living in ran down motels and the backseat of their father’s car when heading to the next hunt. Their living conditions have also lacked with them being able to access nutritional food and also hardly any food at some times.

Childhood trauma is the result of experiencing either different forms of abuse or living through a traumatic event. Exposure to such things can constitute in the child’s developmental level being affected and cause them to experience problems. Such problems this can cause is post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) (Loggings). PTSD is an anxiety disorder that is triggered by traumatic events reoccurrence in the mind, which can cause people to have nightmares, be socially withdrawn, jumpy, anxious, feel numb, or have insomnia that is recurrent for four weeks or more after the inciting event to the trauma (Meyers 664).

In Supernatural, Dean experiences the loss of his mother due to mysterious causes and circumstances in the episode “Pilot,” but his response to her death and how it affected him is not brought up until “Dead in the Water.” Dean’s response to her passing away was to close himself off from everyone he knew by not communicating in any way with others, including his brother and his father. This lack of social interaction that was unusual compared to before her death signifies a disturbance that causes daily functioning to be more difficult for him. The disturbance of behavior in his daily life then, displays a psychological disorder from the interruption it causes him in his life to experience (Meyers 651). Dean most likely experiences PTSD due to the event and things surrounding it making him irritable and jumpy as seen in “Home.” In “Home,” Sam and Dean visit the place where they grew up and the place where they lost their mother because Sam had a vision in which another woman died in what used to be their home. Dean is reluctant to go back with the events that took place the last time they were there, and he tries to avoid anything he possibly could relating to his mother and the house while still trying to help the woman that could be doomed to face the same fate his mother had. When around the house and when taking about his mother, he is jumpy and wants to move on from the subject and leave the place as soon as he can. This makes it more likely that he has PTSD rather than another anxiety disorder because his trigger is specific and rather than general like most anxiety disorders.

Adolescence

The inadequacy Dean feels from his father’s abuse in his early childhood builds in this stage of his life. In Beyond Bruises: The Truth about Teens and Abuse, children that experience abuse begin to believe the remarks they hear from their parental figures and soon come to feel like they are inadequate. Due to this, children begin to see themselves as their abuser sees them instead of understanding what they are like and how they feel themselves. When this happens children may make up a false persona to distract from what happened to them and to get some fulfillment that they are not receiving at home (Gordon 63). In the episode “After School Special,” Sam and Dean return to Truman High School, one of the many schools mentioned in flashbacks throughout the series with their nomadic lifestyle surrounded by hunting, to work a case after a student drowns another student and claims she was possessed and did not have control over her body when the drowning occurred. The brothers go undercover as school employees to discover the ghost of Sam’s bully at the school has been terrorizing the school. Business as usual, they purify and burn the remains for the spirit to pass on. During the flashbacks from this episode, Dean in his time at that high school portrayed himself as a womanizer and has his fair share of girls while he attends that school, and is even called out by one of the girls he wronged about who he actually is rather that who he portrays himself to be (“After School Special”). This “bad boy” and “Devil may care” attitude of his continues to be present well into his adult years to cover up what he feels and hide his vulnerability from the people he cares about. Due to the nomadic lifestyle Dean and his family lived, the emphasis of school from a parent was not set in place and caused him to not even try, knowing that he would be gone in a couple of weeks or months. Along with the lack of emphasis in education, he was more likely to be concerned about Sam’s wellbeing since he was the one taking care of his needs most of the time when John was preoccupied with a hunt and in general (Gordon 63). 

In the episode “Bad Boys,” Dean received a call from an old friend, Sonny, who helped him out during a tough time when he was a teenager. Sonny calls Dean looking for someone to help with his current situation when one of his workers at the boys’ home was mysteriously murdered by a piece of machinery that had not worked in years. When Dean returns to the place he stayed at and called his home for a few months, he begins to remember his time there and how he got there in the first place when he was picked up for shoplifting a loaf of bread and peanut butter at the market. Due to the abuse in Dean’s early childhood, he was more prone to shop lifting and committing a crime later in his juvenile years from the likelihood of children that have experienced abuse committing a crime increasing by fifty-nine percent (Gordon 71). 

Adulthood

The trauma and abuse that Dean Winchester experienced in his childhood affected the relationships he formed as an adult, his self-image, and his mental health. Throughout the series Dean is often clingy to those around him, especially his father and brother, from wanting to seek the validation and acceptance he was hardly ever granted as a child and was instead given the opposite from his father. This is also due to Sam and John being the most consistent things in his life because of their nomadic lifestyle and them being the closest representations of a home that he had growing up and into most of his adulthood. When his father, John, would fulfill his emotional needs, it would be to work for his own personal gain while he was off seeking to avenge his wife’s death, but berating Dean the second he made the smallest mistake or attempted to be a kid. The back-and-forth relationship John had with his son caused Dean to not feel secure in any of his romantic or familial relationships from thinking that everyone would eventually leave him once they realized he was damaged goods. This resulted Dean to grow more colder and attempt to push people away from himself before they realized this, so he would no longer be the one ending up hurt anymore. He also kept the womanizer persona he established during his teen years while engaging in high-risk behavior such as drinking copious amounts of alcohol and having unprotected sex with most flings, he has had throughout most of the seasons in the show as a distraction and coping mechanism for the abuse and neglect he received in his childhood. Having experienced abuse and neglect, Dean was more susceptible to engage in high-risk behaviors like this and more prone to have stress, anxiety, and emotional issues throughout his life (“How Childhood Trauma Affects Us as Adults: Mental Health”).

In adulthood, Dean continues to struggle with the trauma, abuse, and neglect from his childhood and adolescent years. There are multiple reasons this occurs with him being parentified at such an early age by his parents to fulfill their own emotional needs and to take care of his brother and coping with the loss of his mother and the effects it her death had on his father in his early childhood. Also, experiencing neglect and abuse from his father that occurred in his early childhood and adolescence caused him to have long lasting effects into his adulthood from the emotional baggage he has had to deal with.

Works Cited

 “After School Special.” Supernatural, created by Eric Kripke, season 4, episode 13, The CW, 2009.

 “A Very Supernatural Christmas” Supernatural, created by Eric Kripke, season 4, episode 8, The CW, 2007.

“Bad Boys.” Supernatural, created by Eric Kripke, season 9, episode 7, The CW, 2013.

“Dark Side of the Moon.” Supernatural, created by Eric Kripke, season 5, episode 16, The CW, 2010.

“Dead in the Water.” Supernatural, created by Eric Kripke, season 1, episode 3, The WB, 2005.

“How Childhood Trauma Affects Us as Adults: Mental Health.” Mental Health Center, 3 Apr. 2019, https://www.mentalhealthcenter.org/how-childhood-trauma-affects-adult-relationships/. 

Gordon, Sherri Mabry. Beyond Bruises: The Truth about Teens and Abuse. Enslow, 2009.

“Home.” Supernatural, created by Eric Kripke, season 1, episode 9, The WB, 2005.

“In My Time of Dying.” Supernatural, created by Eric Kripke, season 2, episode 1, The CW,  2006.

Leverich, Jean Marie. Child Abuse. Greenhaven Press, 2008. 

Lewis, Rhona. “Parentification: What Is a Parentified Child?” Healthline, Healthline Media, 23 Sept. 2021, https://www.healthline.com/health/parentification#instrumental-vs-emotional. 

Loggins, Brittany. “Childhood Trauma in Adults: How to Recognize and Heal from It.” Verywell Mind, Verywell Mind, 23 Nov. 2021, https://www.verywellmind.com/signs-of-childhood-trauma-in-adults-5207979. 

Myers, David G. Myers’ Psychology for AP. 2nd ed., W.H. Freeman, 2014.

“Pilot.” Supernatural, created by Eric Kripke, season 1, episode 1, The WB, 2005.

Rome, Emily. “'Supernatural' and 'Timeless' Creator Eric Kripke Details the Real-Life Inspirations behind His Fantasy Series.” Los Angeles Times, Los Angeles Times, 19 Dec.2018, https://www.latimes.com/entertainment/movies/la-et-st-eric-kripke-timeless-20181219 story.html#:~:text=He%20cites%20Jack%20Kerouac%20and,chase%20reports%20of%20 paranormal%20occurrences.

“Something Wicked.” Supernatural, created by Eric Kripke, season 1, episode 18, The WB, 2005.

“Supernatural.” IMDb, IMDb.com, 13 Sept. 2005, https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0460681/?ref_=adv_li_tt.

[quasi-normalcy]

A while ago while I was in tumblr jail, you posted that you had a masters in science fiction literature (unless you didn't, I have been known to be mistaken), and I am wondering, what do you consider 'important' works of science fiction? Like the science fiction literary canon? I am so curious. Feel free to ignore, I will not harass you.

Yes! I do. I can tell you the ones that I was assigned (I'm afraid that the list skews extremely male and (especially) white).

Mary Shelley, Frankenstein (1818)

Olaf Stapledon, Last and First Men (1930) and Star Maker (1937) [You can probably add Odd John (1935) to this list]

Jules Verne, Journey to the Centre of the Earth (1864) and 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea (1870) [You can probably add From the Earth to the Moon (1865)]

H.G. Wells, The Time Machine (1895) and War of the Worlds (1897) [Though you can probably go ahead and add The Island of Doctor Moreau (1896), The Invisible Man (1897) and The First Men in the Moon (1901)]

Charlotte Perkins Gilman, Herland (1915)

Catherine Burdekin (writing as Murray Constantine), Swastika Night (1937)

Karel Čapek, R.U.R. (1920)

Isaac Asimov, I, Robot (1950) [You can probably add the first three Foundation novels here as well]

Yevgeny Zamyatin, We (1921)

George Orwell, Nineteen Eighty-Four (1949)

Arthur C. Clarke, 2001: A Space Odyssey (1967) and Rendezvous with Rama (1973) [Add: Childhood's End (1953) and The Fountains of Paradise (1979)

John Wyndham, Day of the Triffids (1951) [add: The Chrysalids (1955) and The Midwich Cuckoos (1957)]

H.P. Lovecraft, "The Call of Cthulhu" (1926) [add The Shadow over Innsmouth (1931)]

Richard Matheson, I Am Legend (1954)

Alfred Bester, The Stars My Destination (1956)

Robert Heinlein, Starship Troopers (1959) [Probably Stranger in a Strange Land (1961) and The Moon is a Harsh Mistress (1966) too, depending on, you know, how much of Heinlein's bullshit you can take]

J.G. Ballard, The Drowned World (1962) [Also, The Burning World (1964) and The Crystal World (1966)]

Phillip K. Dick, The Man in the High Castle (1962) [Also Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? (1968) and several of his short stories]

Frank Herbert, Dune (1965)

Michael Moorcock, Behold the Man (1969)

Kurt Vonnegut, Slaughterhouse-5 (1969)

Ursula Le Guin, The Dispossessed (1974) [Also The Lathe of Heaven (1971) and The Left Hand of Darkness (1969)]

Brian Aldiss, Supertoys series

William Gibson, Neuromancer (1984)

Kim Stanley Robinson, Red Mars (1992) [Also Green Mars and Blue Mars]

They also included Iain M. Banks's The Algebraist (2004), but I personally think you'd be better off reading some of his Culture novels

Other ones that I might add (not necessarily my favourite, just what I would consider the most influential):

Joe Haldeman, The Forever War (1974)

Matsamune Shiro, Ghost in the Shell (1989-91)

Katsuhiro Otomo, Akira (1982-1990)

Octavia Butler, Lilith's Brood (1987-89) and Parable of the Sower (1993)

Poul Anderson, Operation Chaos (1971)

Hector Garman Oesterheld & Francisco Solano Lopez, The Eternaut (1957-59)

Liu Cixin, The Three-Body Problem (2008)

Robert Shea and Robert Anton Wilson, The Illuminatus! Trilogy (1975)

William Hope Hodgson, The House on the Borderland (1908)

Neal Stephenson, Snow Crash (1992)

Joanna Russ, The Female Man (1975)

Orson Scott Card, Ender's Game (1985) [Please take this one from a library]

Edgar Rice Burroughs, A Princess of Mars (1912)

Margaret Atwood, The Handmaid's Tale (1985) and Oryx and Crake (2003)

Aldous Huxley, Brave New World (1932)

Osamu Tezuka, Astro Boy (1952-68)

Ray Bradbury, Fahrenheit 451 (1953)

Madeleine L'Engle, A Wrinkle in Time (1962)

Walter M. Miller, A Canticle for Leibowitz (1959)

Douglas Adams, Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy (1979)

[deeznutzzzz24]

Little Red Riding Hood

Chapter Four: Reckoning Day

Summary: Living a life of caution for as long as she can remember, Y/N has never stayed too long in one place, always moving from town to town in hopes to hide her identity. With the Hunters Moon coming, she knows she must be extra careful, as the local culture resides heavily in the hunting of her kind. One night, when a cloaked figure unveils her secret and narrowly escapes, Y/N finds herself in a desperate situation: kill or be killed. With no face to go by, she must now search through the townsfolk before the stranger can spread the truth about her. But the task proves more than difficult when she realises her only lead is a long, crimson cloak.

Genre: horror, fantasy, little red riding hood retelling

Warnings:cursing, stalking, death

Pairing: redridinghood!Jungwon x femwolf!reader

chapter one here

chapter two here

chapter three here

The trek through the forest is long, awkward, and incredibly quiet.

Jungwon trails behind me now, walking at a hesitant pace to ensure there’s enough distance between us.

He hasn’t said anything since we left Mary’s cottage, but then again, neither have I.

Stopping in the middle of the forests path, I wait for Jungwon to catch up to me. Just as quickly, however, he comes to a stop too, taking a step backward. “Is there something wrong?” His soft voice is soft and calm, or at least that’s how he wants it to sound. I can hear it brimming with fear.

“My dress…” I pout, pointing to the taut fabric stuck to a tree, “its caught on a branch.”

I hear him suck in a breath.

I don’t have to be telepathic to know he’s contemplating how to escape this. He’s afraid of me. And I intend to find out why.

Despite my obvious impatience, he makes no move to come closer. “Have you tried tugging it?” His voice is gentle, as though not to test my patience further.

“Twice, but it just won’t budge…” I muster the most helpless face possible and plaster it against my skin.

He’s calculating his options. He knows I’m close to Mary. He also knows I will relay all his actions to her when and if she should ask.

If Mary were to find out that her grandson refused to help her dear sweet Y/N, she’d make his stay in Avion a living hell.

He grimaces, slowly moving forward and kneeling before me. Gently manoeuvring the fabric away from the branch, he carefully tugs at the loose fragments so they don’t rip. I peer down at him, catching the way his jaw clenches in determination.

If he is who I think he is, I’m going to have to play at this very carefully. Helena and I didn’t just spend an entire year planning a siege on Avion just for it to be spoiled by a boy. Besides, it wouldn’t work if I killed him now. While Mary would likely take my side, I have no doubt the Council will point their stubby fingers to me. Not to mention, if I kill him now, everyone will know I was the last person he was seen with.

Helena’s words echo through my ears.

All good things come to those who wait.

She’s right, as always.

If I want this boy dead, I’m going to have to play chess with him first. And the first step is to move his piece as close to mine as possible so that when he gets there, I’ll be able to lean over and snap his neck.

————————-

We make it to the town pathway and bid our farewells, parting ways in the opposite directions. The walk was quick and silent, as expected.

After the incident with the branch, I didn’t initiate any further conversation. It wasn’t like there was really any point, anyway. Every time I tried to, he’d give brief, quiet answers.

I make it to the Avion welcome post and turn back to watch him walk away. I study his figure, comparing it with a memory of a red cloak running away into the forest. Jungwon has a similar build, but then again, so do most young Avion men. Lean, tall with broad shoulders. It could’ve been anyone.

Yes, I shouldn’t be so quick to make assumptions. I need something more solid. Something clearer.

But it’s no use. The strangers face was covered during our tumble, and I can’t go by his voice as he never actually spoke. My memories can’t disclose any detailed traits, only the image of a long, dark red cloak descending into the darkness remains.

Casting one last glance back to him, I turn around to resume my journey.

A fleeting memory evades my mind and I whirl back around.

His leg.

I threw a heavy rock at him during our tumble, which by any measure, would’ve given him a noticeable limp. If it really is him, his leg will give him away for sure.

But it’s too late, Jungwon is long gone, his figure completely swallowed by the darkness of the forest.

I contemplate running after him, but it’s no use. The last thing I need is for him to know I’m onto him. It’s not like his leg can heal itself overnight.

Helena’s voice rings through my head once more.

All good things come to those who wait.

Yes.

I’ll check tomorrow.

——————————————

Roaming through endless stretches of darkness, I come to a stop as I notice something out of place. It takes me a good five minutes to realise I’m lost. You’d think such a thing to be impossible, considering werewolves simply don’t get lost. The forest is both their home and hunting ground, not to mention, I’ve hunted in these woods every night for almost a year.

Hiding under the stark shadows of the moon, a grand chapel stands proud against the quiet blur of forest, its walls painted with breathtaking swirls of gold and white.

I eye the barren gates blocking my view.

Hmmm.

I know the dark forest better than the back of my hand. The curve of every leaf, the song of every house sparrow, the whisper of every hallowed tree hidden beneath the southern sky. I would’ve noticed a grand fixture like this if I’d seen it.

You definitely weren’t here before, were you?

But, no. The trees, the shade of ebony green flooding through the forest, it’s too…..unfamiliar.

I come to the realisation that this isn’t the Dark Forest at all, but somewhere else entirely different.

Maybe I’ve gone mad…

I shrug at the thought and move forward. The gates open silently as I pass through, standing firm as I come to a stop before the chapels smooth marble steps.

Unlike the entrance, however, the grand doors make no move to welcome me inside.

Cocking my head to the side, I lift a hand to the smooth white surface, giving three firm knocks.

No response.

I sigh, turning to retreat.

They can probably sense my dark magic through the doors. It’s clear I’m not welcome in such a holy place.

Before I can turn away, a thrum of noise echoes from the other side.

Without warning, the right door creaks open, defying its twin, who stays stubbornly stuck in place as I pass through.

The interior is enormous, boasting a grand sea of pews that face a massive podium. It’s windows shower a heavenly glow from the outside world onto its empty seats.

I stop in my tracks, glancing back to the grand doors from which I came.

They’re shut solid.

Huh….

I could’ve sworn it was night time.

I turn back to the windows. Observing the harsh stretch of white oblivion behind them, I come to the sensible conclusion that I have indeed gone mad.

This place is filled with magic.

Magic has been banned from Avion since the Dark Ages.

Yes, I’m not in Avion at all, rather somewhere else entirely.

Small echoes of church choir embrace me from every corner as all thoughts of realism slip between my fingertips like sand.

I look around, expecting to find a hoard of quire children singing their hearts out, but the chapel remains empty.

Well, almost.

In the distance, I spot a figure sitting alone in the first row of pews. His back faces me as his fingers clasp desperately together in prayer, hands held high above his head. He’s too far away to call out to, so I go to step closer, only for a soft voice to stop me.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” I whip my head around, fingers dancing across the hilt of my dagger with caution.

A tall young man stands at my side, admiring a large mural hanging high on the wall before him. I observe his long robes, taking careful notice of the golden silk adorning his cuffs.

A Priests cuffs.

Naturally, my gaze lifts to look upon his face, only to choke on my own breath as I realise he doesn’t have one.

That’s it, I’ve officially gone mad.

Face covered by a cloud of beige blur, the stranger stands patiently to the side as he waits for my response. It’s nearly impossible to see what he looks like.

“Beautiful?” I glance to the giant engraving of Christ before us, cocking my head to the side as I inspect its infinite detail. The carving depicts a heart wrenching image of Jesus hanging limp against the cross, his features scrunched in agony as onlookers watch his suffering from afar, unmoving from their posts.

I glance over to him, cocking a small grin. “A Priest who delights in the suffering of Christ? I can’t say I’ve met one until now.” Though I can’t be sure, I feel his smile widen at my remark.

“I’m no Priest, though I’m flattered you think so. And it isn’t Christ’s suffering I find beautiful, but rather his sacrifice.” His voice remains calm, a beacon of gentle reprieve.

Stopping in brief intervals to observe the artistry of each portrait, I hear him follow behind me as we trail down the hall, coming to a large portrait of gods greatest disciples standing atop a grand table. For a fleeting moment, I allow myself to admire them in all their glory, that is, until I realise they’re cowering above the table as a group of atheists throw food at them from below.

Why would a painting like this be allowed in here?

“What sacrifice?” I laugh, nodding my head back towards the last mural. “The one where he ties himself to a wooden post and lets people stab at him?”

He laughs, his voice a soft, song like noise that feels sinful to listen to. “You don’t believe his suffering to be honourable?”

I shrug, turning my head to the side. “A noble sacrifice, I’m sure.” My eyes dance along the carved lines, tracing the fervent colours that connect the faithful. “But a pointless one all the same.”

I hear him scoff beside me. “How so?” I glance across, scanning the blurry haze that clouds his face. “Please,” he laughs in derision, motioning a hand towards the painting, “indulge me, little bird.” I can’t help but cringe at the nickname.

Without thinking, my hand reaches up towards the engraving, letting my lips explain the difference between reality and blind faith. “Most believe God sacrificed his sons life to teach us a lesson,” my fingertips trace the carved lines as I continue, “to eradicate the temptation to sin, by showing us that his very weak, very mortal son would live a life without sin, only to die for the price of ours. An honourable contribution and yet, look at them.” I motion to the carved audience watching Christ’s suffering from afar, whose faces stain with worry and fear. Among the carved crowd, my fingers find that of a mother clutching her young son as they watch on in horror.

They, much like the rest of those watching, make no move to release Christ from his restraints. Some faithful indeed.

I turn to face him now, staring into a hidden face with features I can’t quite make out, “Such a noble sacrifice, and for what? The mortals Christ died for? They don’t care. They may hang crosses above their dinner tables and dress for church every Sunday, but their blood boils with sin. It is the very beat of our hearts between each breath that condemns us.“ I pause and lift my head high, reciting the verse my mother used to drill into me as a child, “It’s as the judgement reads, ‘we are all sinners, though some of us are far better at hiding it than others.’”

The stranger makes no move to argue with my reason. Instead, he remains silent, and though I can’t quite see, I’m certain I feel his gaze burning straight through me. “And I suppose you would consider yourself such a person?” He asks softly, as though he’s sure of my answer.

I laugh and shake my head. “I used to be. But I’m afraid a rather…..” I pause, briefly hesitating as I trace the outline of an edge, “unfortunate shortcoming has exposed a sin of mine.” My fingertip gets caught on a jagged edge, and I watch in silence as it slices through taut skin with ease.

Small drops of blood fall to the floor.

“I suppose I’m not as good at hiding my flaws as I thought.” I murmur that last part, unsure if I even meant for him to hear.

The young man steps closer, stopping just short of contact, watching, waiting, searching for something. At this proximity, I can almost make out the soft glaze of ebony eyes. Its clear he wants to ask me something, though it seems he already knows the answer. While the small distance makes me feel uneasy, I don’t turn away, opting to neglect my emotions as he involuntarily unveils them.

Anything.

His eyes nearly plead the word, as though he wants me to confess something to him. After a long moment, he realises that’s not going to happen and turns away.

He motions to a mural on our right. I follow his hand, expecting to find another glorified portrait of Christ, but no, this one’s not quite like the others at all.

Its canvas spews a swirl of fiery reds across its surface, painting a picture of terrified mortals falling into a pit of hellfire from above. I look down to its description plaque. Its design is different from the rest, with three short words etched against a small, non descriptive plate of metal.

Day of Reckoning.

Unlike the rest, it bears no mention of a deeper meaning.

“Dishonesty is the quickest path to evil. You’ll do well to remember that, little bird.” I watch in silence as he lifts a hand out to graze a finger against the canvas. “They had sins too.” He sighs. “And like you, they chose to hide them from their forefathers.” He motions to the boiling pit of hellfire. “Of course, all sinners eventually go to hell, but there’s a special place for those who try and keep those sins secret.” I feel his gaze burn through me.

Before I can respond, he turns abruptly and resumes his stroll down the hall. He doesn’t look back as he calls out. “The day of reckoning will come, little bird. First, with your confession,” I watch in silence as he descends into the darkness of the Abbey, hands held firm behind his back, “and then with mine.”

————————

Scanning the Abbey’s pews for the lone figure I spotted earlier, my eyes hunt for any sign of movement, but it seems he too, is long gone.

The church quire still echoes in the distance, but the chapel is truly empty now. My only company is the tall shadow attached at my feet.

Small drops of water fall nearby from a leaky faucet. Turning to confront the noise, I come to face a stone well that sits dead centre in the middle of the Abbey.

What the hell is a well doing inside a church?

I creep forward, itching with the need to see what lays inside.

Instead of water, I’m greeted with an endless stretch of black oblivion that seems to stretch on forever. An empty well? Surely not. Perhaps it does have water at the end. Perhaps it’s too dark for me to tell.

A thought spears at my mind and my blood runs cold with dread.

Perhaps it doesn’t have an end at all.

Curiosity gets the better of me as I grip one hand to the stone corner and lean over, squinting against the darkness.

Still, I see no sign of an end to the well. It simply goes on and on, and I wonder, for real this time, where I truly am.

Before my mind can spiral a thousand different theories, a cold hand attaches itself to the small of my back and pushes me in.

I let out a panicked gasp and reach out for a pillar or a slab of stone I can grab onto, but it’s too late, I’m already falling down, down, down until there’s no more down to fall.

Before I plummet into the last depth of darkness, I whip my head to the cloaked figure that pushed me in, forcing my eyes to adjust to the darkness as the figure watches me from the top of the well. Face concealed by the shadow of his hood, the stranger turns to retreat, leaving a small corner of his red cloak to flap behind him before he disappears completely out of sight.

I force my drooping eyes open, denying them the reprieve of sleep as they try to whisper sweet nothings in my ear.

A red cloak.

My breath catches in my throat, and I question my sanity as I fall further down the well.

Wait, or was it orange? Maybe an amber beige?

But the colour of the cloak is no matter now, for my eyes are much too tired and my bones much too sore. I feel the bottom of the well nearing and briefly ponder the thought of death.

I’ve heard stories that when one dies they experience a slow peace that floods them from all sides. All the beautiful memories of their life flash before their eyes in slow motion.

Where is this the peace they speak of?

Why isn’t everything in slow motion? Why instead, am I falling ridiculously fast to my death?

Is this what it’s really like? A tumbling, torturous rotation of fear? A well with no end? A faceless figure?

I hear the echo of my screams ricochet off the bottom of the well, and when I glance behind me I realise I was right.

There is water after all.

An endless, black pit of it.

———————————-

Authors Note:

…..I have no words for how sorry I am at how long it took me to write this……..

…..really, no words…..🥲🔫

Taglist:

@ramenoil @moonmoongi @chlorinecake @denleave1088 @cha0thicpisces @w3bqrl @yu-yin-04 @rizzhee @babyy-bambii

[ozzgin]

Yandere Jane The Killer with Female Reader who is like Mary Bloody Queen from Identity V(It’s ok if you don’t know Identity V. I adored Mary/BloodyQueen. I feel like Jane The Killer would simp over her. So yes, Yandere Jane x Bloody Queen Reader.)

Sadly I’ve never played nor heard of the game, but it seems there are several essays of character analysis for this Madame Red, which makes it easier for me. I think I have a good idea about her and I do agree the two of them would make a tragic but well fitted pair.

Yandere! Creepypasta x Bloody Queen! Reader

Featuring Jane the Killer and a female reader that strongly resembles the Bloody Queen. TW: May contain violence

Jane has made a promise. She vowed to dedicate herself to a single purpose, that of seeking vengeance. She has abandoned her previous life, the friends she’s known and any hope of normalcy given her fate of an unfortunate test subject. Yes, that much is clear to her. So why, oh why, is she in such pitiful state right now? She’s crouching like a thief in utmost secrecy, hoping to catch the smallest glimpse of your presence. That’s all she needs, nothing more. Why is your sight so soothing to her? She cannot answer. Perhaps it was the way she instantly recognized the look in your eyes, because it’s very much similar to that of her own. The bitterness, the betrayal, the resentful hate boiling within the depths of your black irises, ready to spill over. You’ve been hurt in your past.

She had hoped she’d be satisfied with just observing you from afar. With each day, however, a certain longing seems to bloom and branch out, with powerful tendrils grasping her heart and clouding her mind. She sees your lonely figure and can’t help but fervently wish she could take away your misery. Your only sin is being naïve. Misunderstood. She wants to claw and tear this treacherous world apart, until all that’s left is you and her and…peace.

Once you start dating, Jane is over the moon. Being with you feels like a nightmarish veil has been lifted, and her former self, buried and forgotten in time, digs its way out once again. Warmth floods her body and her lungs expand with fresh, calming air. On your end, you’ve always been somewhat egoistic and burdened by greed. Yet this time it’s different. It’s a paradoxical, directed egoism. You’ve selfishly fallen in love with this mysterious, ghastly stranger that spontaneously invaded your life and your senses. Her bottomless orbs glisten with adoration, but something isn’t quite right about it. It’s twisted, unhinged, a maddening frenzy that traps your being into submission. You don’t mind. You’re a glutton for many things, and nothing is sweeter than unadulterated love. It’s the loyalty that you always desired.

Alas, she hasn’t abandoned her goal. Once you become aware of her intentions, you offer to join her on this intriguing quest of revenge. You can’t say no to such a story of redemption. You arrange your sleeves in the mirror and listen to the worried warnings of your partner. Jane would rather be certain of your safety. Once the outfit appears to be of your desired standard, you linger before your reflection and thoughtfully trace the stitches on your neck. “Have I ever told you why they call me Madame Red?” You turn back towards the pallid woman. A chuckle escapes your mouth upon noticing her nervous expression. “You needn’t concern yourself with my wellbeing. I have faced my fears once and defied my fate.” You pause and search for the words, muddled up in distant memories. This time, when the guillotine falls, you shall be the executioner. At last, it’s your turn to lay the final piece as you glare victoriously at your opponent and announce it: checkmate.

[euoniatz]

Hey I saw your post abt writers block! I never really see people write much for Charles smith x male reader, can I get a fluff + smut pleaseeeeeee?

hi anon! i don't really write smut sorryy :( but fluff i can definitely do! 🙊💕 my brain decided to go chaos mode with this so it's a little all over the place. i hope that's fine anyways and that you'll enjoy!

☆ charles smith x male reader

tags: fluff, first kiss, getting together, pre-canon

wordcount: 1417

(not proof read)

<3

no one notices him as he slips back into camp with a pack slung over his shoulder. no one except you.

ignoring your mare's protest to the lack of movement of the brush in your hand, you watch as charles, the one you can't seem to place, drops of a pair of hares at pearson's stand before heading back towards the edges of camp.

you furrow your brows and glance at the moon high in the sky. why he's heading out in to the woods at this time of night evades you.

he has a lean-to in camp. one that he sleeps in more often than not. one that you share.

you've come to know charles as someone far from what you first expected him to be like.

where you only saw broad shoulders, bulging muscles, and an aura steering even a drunk-off-her-ass karen away, he shows you kindness wrapped in crafted arrowheads and feathers for your hat.

he shows you gentle in the way he murmurs to the deer and the fox and the elk before stabbing his knife in their hearts. in the way he weaves his fingers together as he tells you about his sad, sad past and teaches you about things you'd never even thought of.

he shows you passion in the way his voice turns fiery with rage as you confront bison-killers together. in the way he's steady when he tells arthur or john or you that the fool at the end of your gun doesn't need to die.

yeah, it's safe to say you've never met someone quite like charles smith.

you barely even remember how the two of you got so close. it's only been half a year since you were thrust into the madness of the gang, but all the memories of being distrusting and unsure of yourself have been replaced with the one's of charles' hand brushing yours as you work together on chores or talks that muddle time in some crazy way only mary-beth and her novels could explain.

maybe you are simply both of the quieter nature. maybe your shared interest in nature and animals is what brings you together. or it's the fact that you're both relatively new to the gang. perhaps you just simply like each other.

nevertheless, charles sneaking off in the middle of the night after just returning tells that either he's taking a leak and will be back within the next minute, or this is a sign for you to talk to him.

you wait a minute. no sign of him.

making up your mind, you give your horse an apologetic pat and ventures into the dark of the surrounding woods. the moon is bright enough so you won't fall face first in the dirt, but you still fail to suppress a shudder as a crow caws above you and the bushes around you seems to move.

heart thundering like hoofbeats inside your chest, you swallow and push through the thick leaves ahead, eager to find charles before the silence of the woods consumes you, barely realizing the way your foot snags on something before you're falling-

someone catches you halfway on your descent to the thorns below. gasping, you quickly get your feet back under you to push the stranger away.

"woah, easy," charles says as you breathe a sigh of relief, hands hovering next to you before he realizes the fact and hastily clenches them at his sides.

"you fool," you huff, still breathless from your battle with the bushes or maybe the way his hands felt on your skin. "what are you doing out here?"

charles raises a brow, clearly amused. "could ask you the same thing, but i won't," he holds out a pouch full of bloodied and dull arrowheads. "i need to get this done before i forget."

that's a lie, he never forgets anything. you're about to make an excuse so he can be left to the solitude he so clearly went looking for when he nods to a patch of grass beyond the trees.

"if you're not busy doing... this," he gestures to the godforsaken bush again "you could help, if you want?" he asks, tone suddenly unsure.

you do. god, you do. you nod fiercly and set off for the clearing, really just hoping you won't fall over on the way there. you hear charles sigh behind you, and you think it's one of relief.

"here," charles says and offers a knife when you're both seated in the grass that you both made it to safely and without issue.

you shake your head and pull your own from your belt, grabbing one of the arrows instead. a comfortable silence envelops you as you both get to work sliding your blades against the bloody tips.

then, as you lay your finished arrow in front of you and goes to grab another, charles sighs and lays back in the grass. you watch him curiously, your brain not being able to come up with anything other than how peaceful he looks like this.

you go back to working to keep your hands occupied as he speaks, "dutch's and micah's plan - what do you think?"

you snort and work your jaw a bit before responding. "the boat job? arthur says he has a bad feeling, and he's right more often than he's wrong. i don't know, lotta money if it goes right, i guess."

you don't know much about the plan itself other than the fact that micah seems to think himself a genius for procuring it, and that arthur and hosea don't trust him or his reasoning.

dutch is onto that money like a shark though, and the way things usually go, he'll refuse to hear reason and do it anyway. will only get out alive and richer because arthur and the others will be there too, killing folk so they can get away.

"lots of death if it goes wrong," charles adds and you hum, tossing the knife and laying down next to him, looking at the stars above.

"you don't fancy it either, then?" you say.

charles is silent for a second, which tells you that no, no he does not.

"i think arthur's right about this micah feller," he says finally. "he only needs dutch on his side, though, to hell with the rest of us."

"yeah." you grind your teeth just thinking about it. everything you hear him say to the women and charles and lenny and tilly - you seriously doubt anyone but dutch and micah himself wants him here.

"but," you sit up, scooting closer without really meaning to. "we'll be okay, i know it."

charles blinks up at you, a soft smile tugging at his lips as he raises himself to his elbows. normally you would have moved away by now, excpet something is telling you to stay. you lick your lips, eyes flicking to his before they go back to his eyes.

"yeah?" he murmurs. "how do you know that, mister?"

the distance between you shrink inch by agonizing inch, and your eyes grow wide as you feel his breath on your face. for a moment, only your combined breathing can be heard in the forest, as if the world stopped when you weren't looking.

mind running a mile a minute, you gape in shock that this is really happening, neglecting to respond long enough for charles to begin pulling away.

"hey..." you quickly grab him and hold him steady beneath you, hoping your voice won't be shaking as much as your hands are. "because we'll be in it together."

charles smiles, wide and genuine. you don't have time to appreciate it before he's pulling you in - grabbing your face and setting his hand on your side - and kissing you.

it's like a dream, the way your lips move against one another as if that's all they were ever meant to do. you can't believe this is happening - finally happening.

when you finally pull back to breathe, you laugh breathlessly and kiss the corner of his mouth as he grins and wraps you in his arms. "you fool," he say into his neck, "i can't believe it took micah's foolishness to get us to finally do this."

and then finally you get to hear charles smith laugh, and you think you found the heaven people insist lies in the sky, right here on the ground, beneath you and around you and beside you - just as it should be <3

<3

thank you for reading! feel free to send me more writing requests 💗