#the sinistrous speaks

[kings-highway]

consider this: Soldier, Poet, King by The Oh Hellos, but as the main trouble-makers of Paranormality.

"There will come a soldier who carries a mighty sword. / He will tear your city down." -> "Daichi is not one of us - the bigeneric children born of alien experimentation are like parasites on this planet, they can cast their eyes onto the yokai without belief in them, forcing them to exist without purpose, to live in uncertain circumstances."

Perhaps not a sword, but certainly his nature - his inability to let sleeping dogs lie. Every time Oikawa called on him, Daichi unwittingly answered each time as though he were a soldier following the orders of his commander. When let loose, he did not stop his hunt. He stuck his nose in the dirt and kept sniffing out the drugs buried in a dealer's backyard (metaphorically speaking). Mixing that quality with his poisonous DNA seeping into the very fabric of the supernatural universe, the product is a man who can crumble towers with each footfall, who can make the citizens tremble at the end of his bayonet.

"There will come a poet whose weapon is his word. / He will slay with his tongue." -> "That is the unfortunate burden that we both must carry as believers - there would be no power in your belief if you were able to see it so easily, would there?"

His belief in Daichi's alien heritage, or at the very least, his belief that Daichi's father was up to something shady, is what, essentially, made Daichi an alien. If he had never been told, never been given the inkling of an idea that he is anything but human, then he wouldn't have had to deal with the adverse effects of seeing yokai. Oikawa believed in his ability to perceive, so Daichi did. Oikawa believed that being a monster does not make you monstrous, that the name of the woman who died by her husband's hand is her maiden name, not the one of her murderer. He can destroy and create worlds with words in his mind, with words spoken aloud.

"There will come a ruler whose brow is laid in thorn. / Smeared with oil like David's boy." -> "Sinistrals are not inherently magic but ones born and bred from bloodlines of power and superstition have innate…"

He cannot perceive the yokai. In fact, he barely even believes in them. Yet, he is the only one who can innately physically affect them before they touch him. With Daichi, he can see them. He doesn't know how to lay his hands on them before they've already gotten ahold of him. Using your sinistral hand can be learned, but Ushijima's ability is innate. He is strong in his ancestral power. He is marked with centuries of superstition, a bloodline capable of bringing the yokai to heel. His arm can move as a separate part of him. The very oil of the yokai is smeared into his skin, his veins, his bones, to the neurons connecting to his brain.

these are not set in stone, i think, considering i could also make a sound argument for all three of them in every position, such as both oikawa and daichi in the ruler spot, and ushijima as the solider. and so on and so forth. but, this is what i'm going to go with and submit. i fear i cannot consume media normally. will i be back in the future? maybe. just wanted to leave you with this, and should you have any thoughts, of course i'd love to hear them.

(obviously i know this song is about jesus christ. but it is something to be said that when these three came together, the bigener, the believer, and the sinistral, they tore the city down, as the last line of the song would go.)

I am CRYING.

dear readers, in case you haven't been following along @mania-sama has been waging psychological warfare against me for a few weeks and I'm pretty sure it's punishment for making them enjoy an DaiOi fic

this has killed me. is it possible you understand the themes and motifs of these characters more than i do? absolutely. fuck you. Also, deeply impressed that you put Ushijima up there, because he initially was slated to be the third metaphorical heavy hitter of the story but I decided to bench him for a bit and instead he will be back in a sequal to develope what the sinistrality hand meant. BUT FU K YOU BECAUSE YOU'VE SPOILED IT. HOW DID YOU NAIL IT 100% ON A SUBJECT I BARELY FUCKING TOUCHED. YOU GOT IT. ABLE TO TOUCH THE YOKAI BEFORE THEY TOUCH HIM. SATURATED IN THEIR OILS. IM CHEWING ON YOU MANIA. IM CHEWING ON YOU SO HARD. DO YOU FEEL THESE TEETH GNAWING? MMMHMMMM TASTY MANIA MUNCH MUNCH MUNCH.

Anyways I love you thanks for this I have to go back to work and be normal for another 5 hours now.

EVERYONE should read this. If you read Paranormality: its accurate. You know that. Enjoy the extra. IF YOU HAVENT this is the best goddamn endorsement of the story I could have written.

[lacnunga]

No pressure to read it at all but here's a wee drabble about my ocs, specifically Perfidious ruining his own fucking life by telling Eustace what an asshole he's been their entire friendship

"Come in, come in, im glad to see you, Fideous," Byng said excitedly, practically grabbing my arm to pull me into his little room. It was a plain but cosy affair, unlike the stuffy little rooms aboard the Advantage which stank and putrified even with every gun hatch thrown open for air - here, the landlady at at least put pretty enough curtains on the windows and there was only a little built up dust along the edges of the floor. A pair of singlesticks had been thrown carelessly onto the narrow daybed, which was already mountainous with laundry, Roman tomes and octaves of poems and plays. Half the counterpane trailed on the floor and several half-drunk cups of tea gathered on sideboard and sea chest like girls at a party. Byng had thoroughly installed himself here.

My captain turned to me and beamed, his brown eyes glittering as the setting sun washed over him.

"What excellent timing you have; Mrs Battersea will have tea ready any moment now, and you must dine with me and we shall discuss my letter to Napier. Oh, do not look so perturbed," he laughed, having evidently seen some of my agitated state in my eyes, "all things good, I assure you."

Yes, I needed no assurance of it. I knew Byng would write only too enthusiastically of my time in his service, and it was here wherein lay the entirety of my problem. Had I never met this man I would not know myself to be one to dislike inner turmoil, for I don't make a habit of engaging in it. It was Byng who never knew when to leave well enough alone and when to leave an enemy an enemy without towing him into friendship. It had always been my curse to resent him near as much as love him.

"Please, take a seat."

I cast an eye about the room and found no available surface.

"...where, sir?" I jabbed.

"Oh! Well, you may throw down Cicero," Byng said, pronouncing the name with his usual hard 'c', "Lord knows he deserves it! Ha!"

I made a smile at his words, although not understanding the reference and not letting it bother me. He might have pressed Voltaire onto me, and Swift and Gay, but i draw the line at Romans. I took Cicero in my hands and set his papery corpse on a half-unrolled housewife; I had to restrain myself as always from following behind him and tidying up, lest I prove the jabs of my own wifeliness true and lose what has remained of my Machiavellian reputation. Although I suppose Byng had an excuse this time - at the thought, my eyes flickered guiltily to his half-wooden hand. It was clear that despite his period in the naval hospital, my captain was still struggling to change from his sinistral upbringing.

Still, it was not to critique his slovenliness that I had come to his room.

"Sir," I started, seating myself on the little space I had cleared of the footstool, "there was something....something I wanted to discuss."

"Please, you know I will always bend my ear to you, Fid," he said, before peering closer at me, "Why, your face-! Is it awful news?"

"No, I- that is-. Ah!" I did not want to look at his concerned expression. All the words had dried up in my mouth as soon as attempting to speak them; how ridiculous, to waste away the night with harrowed rehearsal only to find myself fish-jawed when it came to the opening performance. Me! He whom trouble followed in consequence of caustic wit, struck suddenly dumb!

And the longer I remained silent, the deeper the furrow between Byng's brows got.

"Is it...money?" He near whispered the last, afraid of offending some invisible etiquette teacher by mentioning finances so crudely.

I shook my head, my auburn hair flying about.

"Then I am at a loss," Byng declared, placing one hand on his hip, the other dangling unnaturally - his new asymmetry made that noxious cauldron of guilt and shame roil in my stomach, "but it cannot be as dreadful as you are putting on. Tell me all about it and we shall have the matter sorted by coffee, my friend."

"I have not been your friend," I blurted, clumsily.

There was a long pause, in which the clatter and shouting outside the boardhouse seemed to swell like a choir to fill it. For a moment I could not fathom how the entirety of my disclose was not obvious to him within those six words, forgetting that they had only consumed my reality by the throes of my own inner repetition. No, that my confession was still a secret was obvious, for instead of outraged, Byng looked only confused, and scratched at his moustache. The fine golden hairs that had escaped his pomade caught the low sun and blazed like beaten gold - my fancy saw him in that moment like the Archangel Michael with myself as always, cast as the devil himself.

"If you are still dwelling on my words about being abandoned on the hospital, I beg you to forget them. They were a bad joke and I ought to have known you would take them to heart. I understand how busy you have been," he said kindly.

I did not want his kindness. I had not wanted it at the beginning of our aquaintance and I did not want it now, when I must expose myself to him entirely. It would have suited me better if he was dismissive or pompous or selfish, but then, had he been any of those things, I would never have found myself in the position I was in.

Maybe it made it easier in the end, as his kindess irritated me and there is nothing better for loosening the tongue than irrational stress.

"We hoped you would die," I snapped, and with those savage words it was as though a damn, long rotten and straining over the years, broke within me and out came spilling a torrent of filthy, diseased water, "You often said our friendship began on the Courland expedition. It is true, I did recommend you for the negotiations to Gainsford, but not because I thought you would do well at it."

When Byng said nothing, I continued, "I don't know if you were even aware of my dislike of you. I hated all things you represented - priviledge, education, connexions. You had the impertience to be friendly and humble and forgiving and there was little I could not find a way to despise about you. Yes, I sent you off to the Governor and greatly you thanked me for that boon afterwards, but with sincerity I had done it with the presumtion that you would not come back."

It hurt to say these things to the man I now loved, but it was necessary. It was necessary - I had repeated as much to my pillow in the dark of the night - for him to know the depths of my depravity before he risked his reputation by recommending me to the Admiral on false understandings.

I was glad that it hurt.

When I risked a glance at him, Byng had gone very still and very pale. His good arm had dropped to his side.

"I see," he said woodenly. To hear his normally bonny voice so expressionless was near as debilitating as the sight of him clutching his mangled hand had been. "I...I suppose there have been queerer starts to friendships. It will be a funny thing to tell people at dinner parties, certainly." His chuckle sounded forced, "but it has been years-"

"That was not the end of it," I interrupted him. I had to dispell him of his good opinion of me, for my own honour as much as his.

"Oh?" Came the faint, reluctant question.

"Yes," I said. There was a heat building in me, like a fever reaching its climax and I believe in the moment it sent me to the very edge of madness, "I resented you your success - we all did, but I the most, for your fortune was my own doing and the praise of one so far my junior in rank but superior in society galled me to the extreme. For my own benefit, I pretended at friendship. I took your affection and betrayed it for years. Had it not been for my own sense of duty towards my superiors - I couldnt imagine where we would be now."

"You cannot be serious," Byng protested, and now he too sounded hot, "you are confused, Fidious. You've saved my life, twice over, three times if you would allow me to count Chatham!"

"My duty, as I said, sir."

"Then-, then you took me into your care when I was attacked," he pointed out triumphantly.

The memory of that winter night and Byng's staggering form bearing me dazedly to the pavement, blood running down his face, shot through my mind. A reminiscent shiver ran down my spine.

"You might have died," I pointed out, determined not to allow him to paint me as any kind of samaritan, "I may have betrayed your good opinion but I would not have allowed any man of woman to just pass in the street."

"You are making this very difficult, you know," Byng said crossly and I felt a familiar pang of satisfaction in making myself disagreeable, "there was no danger of me dying from the attention of the Duchess of Whitby, though. There was no need for your intervention but your rescue of me from matrimony when I asked it of you."

He seemed very assured of his victory there, but the shame threated to swallow me again at the reminder.

"I was glad to 'rescue' you; it was gratifying to me to deprive you of a greater fortune and a title in one fell swoop."

Byng's fine face fell.

"Tell me this is a joke," he said eventually. My words had begun to penetrate his rosy view of the world. I could feel my heart crack in tandem with his.

"I cannot," I replied, my voice wavering like a snotty's.

"I have asked you for counsel, and you have given it. I have told you my fears, and you have reassured me. I asked you to share in my joys, and you did."

"For my own benefit, sir." I swallowed the lump in my throat, "for my own advancement."

"...I introduced you to my sister."

"Yes," i whispered.

The dam had run dry. There were no more words. I had done what i had set out to; to destroy the bridge Byng had built between us over the years. As I watched, I saw the flesh fingers of his hands curl into fists, and his whole body strike up rigid. It was only those wooden fingers that sat slack and I did not miss the irony that in that moment, the only part of my captain's body not set against me was that which he had sacrificed to save my life. It was in that gory, mutilating moment that my love for him had flowered, belatedly, selfishly, only then had my eyes opened. How could I have visited him in recovery knowing, feeling now thoroughly, all those years I had plotted against him or accepted his friendship with ill feeling?

"I had been warned about you," Byng said quietly, face like procelain. "Lieutenants, midshipmen, seamen - even those Buffs you played the tables with; all seemed to have black words to say about you. But I dismissed them. Every one; I even got a little irate at some of them. My own honour felt besmirched that these people would cast aspersions on my closest friend in the world."

Each blow struck me like a sabre. Good. It was good that he make me bleed.

"Sir-" I began, only to be interrupted by a knock on the door and the impertinent entry of a white-capped maid.

She bobbed a curtesy.

"Mrs Battersea says to tell you tea's ready for you, sir - and to say there's enough for two if your friend is staying."

Byng did not take his eyes off of me.

"No. This man was just leaving."

Surely there was an ocean of blood lapping at my knees by now. It was good, and it was right, but like a drowning man taking one last breath before going under, it was instinct that moved my lips without knowing what my next words would be.

"Please-"

"I think, Mr Jones, that you have thoroughly obliterated your right to say 'please' to me, don't you?"

My last breath of air went out. Here were the consequences of my actions - Byng's blithe counternance one of stony betrayal, my commendation to the Admiral no doubt would find itself fuelling the fireplace, the hesitant understanding between myself and Lady Babington crumpling with the news of what I had done to her brother. Obliterated indeed.

"Then I will take my leave," I said. My words seemed to come from very far away to my own ears.

"Good day, sir," Byng dismissed me curtly, turning his back on me, halo fading with the approaching dusk.

"Good day."

And, with the maid looking between us askance, I left.

When later I received a summons from Napier concerning a glowing letter of commendation from his protege, I could never have felt worse.

[asterrrrion]

I'm french and I'm also an Ace Attorney fan.

The thing is, I have NEVER before today interacted with the french part of this fandom, I've never even seen screenshots of the french translation before today.

And let me tell you, my shock when I learned that they changed the name of Miles Edgeworth to Benjamin Hunter

I-

Benjamin.

I have no idea how that name is perceived in English speaking countries but let me tell you : in french it does NOT send Miles Edgeworth vibes. (Could be worse : his name in Portuguese is Eduardo. I laughed over this for 30 minutes.)

Like there's no way I can buy the Apollo remaster now, how am I supposed to take him even the slightest bit seriously??

Some names are good in french, Larry to Paul is a great transition, Lotta to Eva is good and I approve of Ron being an Henri, Gaspen Payne being named Oscar makes me extremely happy, Simon to Raphaël isn't that bad of a change even if Simon is like also an actually perfectly respectable french name (weirdly enough Raphaël is starting to grow on me, seems like an edgy name now that I've finished reading Balzac).

But Vérité for Trucy ?? (Vérité literally is Truth and has never been a name in any circle ever) mean come on, Trucy sounds at least cute.

DeKiller's John Doe being transformed into Alonso Bistro feels criminal (Alonso Bistro isn't an equivalent to John Doe, it's 1) not an actual name and 2) it's literal translation is Letsgoto Thepub), and in a general way the emphasis on puns way more than in the English version kinda pisses me off. Like Dick Gumshoe is funny while actually suiting the character, Dick Tektiv is funny but less so and also the Dick part is untranslatable.

Another thing that pisses me off !! They don't actually translate names that could be translated easily ! Like Apollo is still Apollo even though he should definitely be called Apollon (to make the ridiculousness of his name actually come across), why bother translating Edgeworth's name at all if it's to give him an english surname ? Why's Pearl still Pearl if she literally could be called Perle ? Why bother translating Joe Darke into Joe Sinister dude you could've just said Joe Sinistre and it would've been ten times funnier. Why ruin April May's name by saying Masha Vril even though Avril is an actual name even if it's rare ?

Worst part is though : they changed Klavier's name to fucking Konrad. That one I'm afraid I can't forgive.

[twentydaysofmay]

Tried fusing Thandian and Kay(f)bop(t), which might've been a mistake.

Despite how chaotic the character may look at first glance, a lot of elements in their design have a reason behind them. All details are explained under the cut!

Since Thandian was Biblaridion's first conlang, and one that is now considered by the creator to be "very bad", I thought that giving the fusion the appearance of a "bad OC" would be very fitting. Those are usually made either by inexperienced character designers and writers who haven't learned the principles in their interests yet, or are deliberately made "bad" by people trying to mock said OCs. The former has an aspect of genuine lack of necessary knowledge - quite like the younger Bib who didn't know about things like the IPA back then - while the latter has an element of trying to be bad on purpose, just like Kay(f)bop(t).

One common part of the designs of "bad ocs" is needless complexity, which fits very well with both the kitchen-sink nature of Thandian and the chaoticity of Kay(f)bop(t). Biblaridion tried to cram everything he thought was cool into Thandian without thinking about cohesion at all, while Daniel Swanson probably looked at this blog full of humorous conlanging ideas and decided it would be fun to try to combine as many of them as possible. Having lots of random elements in this design being chosen just for the sake of "being cool" was, in my mind at least, a perfect idea for combining these two languages.

The top hat, the baseball cap, and the turkey are quite obvious references to Kay(f)bop(t)'s phonemic hats. However, I decided to split the fedora into a pork pie hat and a bavarian hat (the idea of which came from this post) just for the sake of greater complexity.

The sheep, the penguin, and the wombat are all references to a specific type of marking in Kay(f)bop(t), namely being the three animals included in the "manner of death" suffixes.

And speaking of the penguin, the cyan markings on the arm holding it represent <%>, the glyph used for the percussive bimanual stop (or, in simpler terms, a "clap"), used only in morphemes related to penguins.

And speaking of the weird non-pulmonic consonants, since and <*> represent the sinistral and dextral lateral clicks ("left click" and "right click") respectively, they are positioned on the left and right sides of the character's body. The <@> on the belt represents the faciomanual click ("facepalm"), and while it is neither on the face nor the palm, it is still in the body's center.

The weapons on their belt are a "battle-ax" and a sledgehammer, both mentioned in the "manner of death" suffixes.

From the viewer's perspective, the two horns on their head spell out "KB" in the Thandian script.

The purple shoe (called a "buskin") and the angel wing are both references to Thandian's past as a relex of Latin - the former having an association with ancient Rome, and the latter having an association with Christianity.

However, everything else that isn't a visual component taken from Thandian or Kay(f)bop(t)'s designs by Elemenopi was either chosen because I found it cool, or it was taken from some of the results for "bad OC" on google or videos about "how not to make OCs" on Youtube.

[ophidian-petals]

Sinistram Viam - 1

Early on in my magickal and occult journey I took on a motto, I don't remember it other than its initials being PCLLC and that the two L's stood for Lux Lucis... I used google translate or something... I was not master at languages. It meant, "inner union of light and darkness." I believed that everyone was either born to the Right Hand of the Lamb or the Left Hand of the Goat. I felt I was in between despite having a feeling of being drawn to the Dark Side... not in the sense of hurting people, but I do admit I can be rather amoral at times especially when I was younger before the venom of Christianity crept into my veins... more on that later. I don't have anything against anyone that is Christian, but when they begin to act big and bad, then they can go bugger off! Yes, I'm an American, but I will always be drawn to Britain and the Old Country.

For the longest time I tried to become Christian, I forced it! I played the victim when I never felt a need to ask Jesus for forgiveness. I know, what a shocker, right!? Its only a shocker to the people that believe that Christianity is the one and true religion. It disrupts their worldview, their universal sense of balance. Its introducing Chaos into a system of Order. There is no right or wrong here, its about stability and instability, truth vs falsehood, even what is needed for psychological health vs what one thinks they need for psychological or spiritual health when its actually detrimental to their health. Christianity can be very toxic, but it can also be very beautiful! God I fell in love Catholic Mysticism and Magick!

I lacked true Faith though and no matter how hard I tried, it wasn't coming. It did, however, come when my mother was dying. There was no more feelings of negativity, doubt, hatred etc., but understanding in the sense of finding a link. A link that lead to God! This last for about three to four years until here recently when I prayed to Lucifer. Not the first time, but this time I told Him that I would devote myself to Him if He did something for me! I forgot about it until after it happened, but I started praying to Lucifer and Satan. One day I asked Lucifer or Maybe Satan, probably Satan, what do I need to do to be happy in life and the most amazing thing happened! The Sun shone its light upon me at that very moment! How often do signs like that happen that immediately!? I took it as meaning to be Happy, but also the Light of Lucifer perhaps... I didn't think so though, but I ended up becoming a Thelemite.

Late last year was a time of meaning discovering myself... actually all of last year was. I still do have guilt and a part of me feels it and that I will burn in Hell for it, but for the most part its not as bad. What I feel like is a New Chapter of my Life started with the Left Hand Path. I'm not new to the Left Hand Path, but I do have a fresher understanding of it. I became enthralled with Thomas LeRoy's video and even joined the Sect of the Horned God which ultimately speaks volumes as early on in my Pagan journey, I became fascinated with the Horned God specifically Cernunnos. I think a lot of this was my roots as a Heathen, as a Satanist emerging.

I believe that we are all born onto the Left Hand Path, but for some reason, some venture over onto the Right Hand Path. I think it might all be a part of evolution. I need to venture upon the Sinistral Walkway because there was a part of me that I learned to bury away and not always manifest in the healthiest of ways. This side of me is as much a part of me as anything else and I need to learn to embrace that, that I am who I am no matter what! I might not be the most hardcore individual upon the Left Hand Path, but I sense a need to walk it... actually I feel a need to return to it, like it's a part of me and not just a path I'm choosing to walk. In fact, I would completely ignore it if it was for the fact that I feel intertwined with the serpentine furrows of Sinistram Viam.

I came across Thomas LeRoy and Sinisterism a few years ago, but it didn't strike a chord with me almost like I wasn't supposed to hear what I was supposed to hear at that time. Late last year that changed as Sinisterism hit me like never before. Almost like I was understanding it in a whole new light. From my early pre-teen years I developed an interest in religion and sought out a religion to belong to, but nothing really fit. I did have a strong attraction to Taoism/Daoism though... why is all about the D now. It used to be spelled Tao as in Taoism or Tao Te Ching. Later on it became Daoism and Dao De Khing. Its like when everyone started insisting that chi is pronounced ki.

First off, are we such a dick oriented society that we have to change a limp sounding T to a hard sounding D? Maybe its sexist because T is for Tits and D is for Dicks. Maybe its racist, Taoism sounds like Towel-ism which just has Al-Qaeda written all over it! Take something that sounds like its from the Middle East and make it sound more American... you know, because the epicenter of American culture is the Dick! Tits and Pussy, but Dicks are funnier, right?

Secondly, we don't call the Chinese, Kinese anymore, right? We don't call China, Kina? and the same can be applied to your fine china. My own opinion I guess, but the ch is soft, not hard as in loch. Chi, pronounced as chee, is Chinese and ki is Japanese. Everyone goes on about cultural appropriation, but what about cultural misappropriation. I mean, if your going to do it, do it right!

Getting back on topic. Sinisterism is, from my understanding, a LHP system in which the individual builds their own foundation of practice and belief from the bits of other systems that work for them. This struck a chord with me now since re-discovering him. Its been something I've been doing for most of my life minus the LHP orientation.

[nismarun]

Dear you, (1 of 2)

I am all they said as dull as dishwater and as cold as ice. Whether it was due to my family’s strict upbringing that left me unable to chill out or the burden I carried on my shoulders—and, of course, all of them could see. In every place I step, all are seen.

Their eyes will always be in the same spot. They must have seen a lot, but they were able to depict my life as accurately as they could. And people, people tend to believe what they see, even if the truth may lie beyond the horizon. What they saw was me, a spoiled brat from a pureblood family who knew only too well the importance of education and maintaining the honour of his lineage.

Despite the many rumours, I am the only person who truly knows the true me. This, by the way, is a statement of fact; I am.

I am a stolid, uninteresting bookworm. Those who use words sparingly, but with devastating effect, on those who hear them. They said I could do nothing but study and ‘maintain an image’ for the benefit of the family's reputation. It’s me, and I won’t lie and say I didn’t do it.

But I believe, no one will ever fully be able to understand the internal battles I had to endure just to grow, just to make it here today. I am that my own eyes witnessed: a lad who isn’t afraid to let loose and enjoy life. I laugh, joke around, or even cry with those who want to share it with me.

The only reason I crossed over into the cool dew of happiness was because boredom had chained me so tightly. I was able to block out all thoughts of the real world and concentrate just on the daydream. The Sinistrics and The Dereticals replace Arthur Guyton and neurosurgery with a blanket of comforting joy.

Something I don’t fully understand has revealed a different side of me to me and to others. Where I can be the person I’ve always wanted to be, one who speaks his mind without fear of repercussion, who laughs without restraint, who appears unconcerned by the uncertain future he’s always feared. My brain is busy understanding that being here has altered me so drastically.

I grow and am still.

I might not that different. Because characteristics are still there even as we develop and advance. Just, for now, I believe I am my better self—I still have the load but I know how to party. I am still chilly but I can put on a warm grin. I am you, Nismara Harun.

This is my letter to the future me.

Written in May, 2023.

[awaysantiana]

there is absolutely a "nbc hannibal fan" to "izzy hands enjoyer" pipeline. i cannot precisely articulate the steps within but i know the toe eating thing plays only a surface role in all of it. the gambit goes deeper

[midnightwinterhawk]

I put together a little collection of Sterek and Steter fics for funsies. “Just a few fics”, I thought, “nothing too crazy.” Thirty fics later I had to cut myself off and finalize the list. You can thank @the-cookie-of-doom​ for the inspiration. 

These primarily fall under the Hurt Stiles Stilinski category because I apparently like to see my comfort characters suffer. Most of these have hopeful/happy endings but mind the tags. For reals.

Placed under a cut since I have no self control and this turned into a long post.

Sterek

adore to see your eyes fly by @1001cranes

(11,309 l E)

stiles is a pyromaniac, derek is a sociopath. a match made in some kind of heaven. teen wolf kink meme fill.

take my heart from me by @areiton

(23,188 l NR)

He didn't really mean to adopt Derek's pack of puppies. He didn't mean to make himself important to them.

To Derek.

He just wanted to keep them all safe.

That's all Stiles ever wanted.

"Why Can't You?" by @asterekmess

(3,602 l T)

Now. This was happening now, and he couldn’t be less prepared.

-

After a long night, things between Stiles and his father come to a head.

And You Say You're Alone by bi_leigh_bi

(30,314 l E)

Between the kanima, the Argents, and Peter's untimely return from the dead, everything has fallen apart. Stiles and Derek try to put their lives back together once the crisis has passed. Stiles deals with the aftermath of being tortured, and the distance growing between he and Scott. Derek attempts to become a stronger alpha and keep his pack safe, and that includes Stiles.

A Victory March by @churkey

(2,688 l T)

When Stiles is eight he learns that nothing will be the same. His dad comes home one day after work and sits Stiles down for a talk. He explains that werewolves and all the monsters are real.

They're real and not hiding under anyone's bed.

Bury the Moon by darthjamtart

(16,592 l M)

First things get bad. Then they get worse. Stiles doesn’t know what he’s sacrificed until it’s too late.

Dying is the easy part.

Love's Violent Delights by @dexterous-sinistrous

(10,685 l E)

Derek caught the way the man’s eyes looked over Stiles before lingering on his ass. He waited for the clerk to place the key on the counter before he reacted.

Stiles startled at the loud noise, turning away from the pamphlets in the display box to see Derek pinning the clerk’s head against the counter. He drew in an even breath, looking between the struggling man and Derek.

Derek briefly looked at Stiles, hesitating before he saw the gleam of excitement in Stiles’ eyes and the hint of lust in his scent. “Ever look at him, or any other Omega, like that again, and I’ll slice your eyes out with my claws.” He shoved the man back, not caring of the commotion that was made as he snatched up the key from the counter.

Empty by @discontentedwinter

(48,034 l M)

Jordan Parrish is the new sheriff of Beacon Hills, a town haunted by its past.

Your Vision Borrows Mine by hazyascent

(188,781 l E)

Stiles has encountered a fair share of monsters before, way out of his league - the kinds that children are afraid are hiding in their closets and under the bed.

He’d even become one himself when he was void. The nogitsune was in his house, his body, and his mind.

But the worst monster he’s ever faced took even more from him and got away with it.

It’s why Stiles has never really been as terrified of werewolves and kanimas and darachs as he should have been. They’re really not that scary, relatively speaking, and he has a whole team on his side. They always found a way to win - until they lost someone they really loved.

Stiles doesn’t know how to be normal, not after everything he’s done and everyone he’s hurt. The nogitsune is gone, but another monster is on its heels.

His uncle is back. And Stiles has never felt more alone.

It Was a Wednesday by @isthatbloodonhisshirt

(80,129 l M)

“What happened? Where are you? What’s that sound?”

Derek jumped, having momentarily forgotten Scott was on the phone with him because Stiles had started moving. He’d stalked over to the other side of the cave, still eying Derek warily and growling, then settled protectively over a mass of clothes, leaves and animal innards. It was probably where he was sleeping.

Lovely. No wonder he smelled like death.

“Stiles,” Derek said, answering Scott’s question. Or, one of them, at least.

“Stiles? What do you—Stiles is making that noise?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“How fast do you think you can make it to the south lot of the Preserve?”

Tiny Houses by @ohmyjetsabel-blog

(77,183 l E)

"So this is what Stiles does. He lies in Scott’s bed and waits for Melissa to say she’s found someone to get it out of him, to cure him of the wrongness and the bad, and he dreams.

God, he dreams.

He dreams of fire and swollen bellies and that scene in Alien, of giving birth to jackals through his urethra, the whole horrific nine yards. His head is a terrible place to be, he can’t imagine his stomach is much better, why anyone would want to put a thing inside of it."

I'm There in the Water by @spaceprincessem

(15,878 l T)

“But it’s—” Derek paused, his words unsure, “it’s not like us,” he swallows hard, chin dipping to his chest in frustration, “it’s like a…”

“An abomination,” Stiles finished, nodding his head as he finally lets his gaze really look at Derek since Scott had pulled them from the water.

He suddenly wished he hadn’t because the way Derek looks at him makes Stiles feel like he is ten years old again. Like Derek is seeing him for the first time since they accidentally fell into each other’s orbit all those years ago. Like Stiles isn’t a burden or invisible.

Like he is enough.

Or five times Stiles felt like he was drowning and the one time he finally caught his breath

Gunplay is Not Really Our Kink by theroguesgambit

(2,577 l M)

“The rules to the game are simple. One bullet, six chances. You pick it up and take turns pulling the trigger on the other man, or we gun you both down right now. You play along, only one of you has to die. Fun game, huh?”

--

Derek and Stiles are captured by a group of hunters and forced to play a twisted game that only one of them might walk away from.

The Price by theroguesgambit

(18,452 l M)

Stiles must surrender the most important thing in his life to protect the town… and no one can figure out what it was.

Nieważny by Zethsaire

(2,037 l E)

The pack is gone, everything they've ever cared for destroyed. Now Stiles and Derek hunt the hunters, taking revenge in the only way they know how; blood.

Steter

Make Me Bleed by @asarcasticwitch

(2,304 l E)

Peter’s expression contorts, impressed or surprised, Stiles can't decipher, but the grin on his face proves he’s not exactly disappointed with the unexpected turn of events.

“Which bite exactly were you hoping for, hm?” The older man curls one hand around the back of Stiles’s neck, trailing his thumb along his pale, fragile throat.

Stiles tilts his head back in unyielding submission, giving the wolf no room to debate his sincerity. “I’m sure you can figure it out, Alpha.

Two Roads Converge in a Graveyard Town by @cywscross

(15,645 l T)

The Deadpool brings one more assassin to Beacon Hills. A man's gotta eat after all.

when you're going through hell (keep going for me) by cywscross

(57,022 l T)

Peter is abandoned in the aftermath of the fire, and Eichen House takes ruthless advantage. Six years later, when he's finally able to move again, he finds himself in a cell with a boy in a straitjacket.

(Kate’s biggest mistake was letting Peter live. Eichen House’s biggest mistake was letting Peter meet Stiles.)

Don't Fail Me Now by @discontentedwinter​

(36,315 l E)

Stiles goes to Derek looking for help.

He finds Peter instead.

Peter takes what he's wanted for a very long time.

Sanctuary by DiscontentedWinter

(56,525 l M)

The Hale Wolf Sanctuary isn’t just for wolves.

It turns out it’s for Stilinskis as well.

Bite Down by EclipseWing (@shadow-of-the-eclipse)

(27,586 l M)

In which Stiles is forced to survive the zombie apocalypse with a sociopathic murdering werewolf for company.

Into Eden by @graciebirdie

(12,232 l M)

Stiles deciding to bring home the stray alpha he'd hit with his jeep probably made him certifiable, if it hadn't turned out Peter was as crazy as he was.

Before you let go (and the light takes you in) by Issay

(4,032 l E)

Stiles makes one last errand - goes to leave flowers on all the other graves. Fuck, so many graves. The grief is as endless and as inescapable as the sky.

He goes home and there is a thing wearing his father's face, waiting for him in the kitchen.

Call My Name by KouriArashi ( @gingersnapwolves )

(81,370 l M)

After moving to Beacon Hills, Stiles starts having recurring dreams of a man in some kind of prison, who needs his help. Things get so bad that he ends up in Eichen House, where he finds out that the man is real.

Hide my tears in the rain. by MrsRidcully

(6,865 l M)

After  years spent successfully dodging werewolves, evil spirits and wendigos,  it was a drunk driver who stole his Dad, a drunk driver with a  suspended license and a record sheet as long as Stiles’s arm. Stiles  would have laughed at the irony if he hadn’t been so busy screaming.

In My Veins Like Disease by romanoffbarton

(1,140 l T)

He tries to leave once.

Foreshock by @twothumbsandnostakeincanon

(22,816 l E)

The day Stiles’ mom died, he almost leveled his house.

Not on purpose. Not even by mistake, really. More by instinct.

Since then he's dug his fingers into everything his has left, holding on with desperation.

Desperation never stopped an earthquake.

Your Touch is My Choice by twothumbsandnostakeincanon

(2,171 l T)

The first time John does it, Stiles is two years old and about to run into the road.

“Mieczysław!” Heart pounding, John grabbed him by the back of his neck and got a hand around his tummy, snatching him back. “No, you have to stay away from the road,” he said firmly.

Shameful Company by Whispering_Sumire (@whispering-sumire755)

(38,779 l E)

"Did I turn into a unicorn?" Peter asks dryly, and Stiles glares at him for a moment before the laughter bubbles up, unbidden, nearly unwilling, and he looks so surprised at the sound, his shock dimming it for a moment before it bursts through with even more trembling ferocity. A long, thin, willowy hand curls into a soft fist over his mouth, and he's shaking, frail, more tears falling, but the copper of his eyes are glowing, crinkling around the edges and scrunched with mirth.

"No," Stiles chokes, chuckling wetly. "No, fuck you, a unicorn? What, like, Rainbowcreep? Zombiesparkle?"

[About a year before the fated Hale fire, Peter starts having nightmares that involve a woman with red hair. The nightmares lead to a spell that brings a man back through time, and, eventually, though the time-traveler is traumatized in the most horrific ways, and Peter's never been good with or for people, in general, they develop a bond that neither of them expects.]

Would You Forgive Me If I Called You Hope, Peter Hale? (Hope, By Any Other Name) by Whispering_Sumire

(10,099 l T)

Stiles has scars. He owns that, he accepts it, he's cataloged and memorized every single one, he's hyper fucking aware of them all.

//

"What do you want, Peter?" Having the more untrustworthy of the Pack getting protective weirds him the fuck out, leaves an odd fluttering in his chest, like moths, waiting perilously and suicidally to be burned.

He doesn't like it.

"You're injured," the man says, "and whatever it is, it's put you in enough pain that I nearly fainted when I-"

"- Used your werewolf mojo on me without my permission?" Stiles smirks, and Peter gives him a black look, crossing a leg over his knee and smoothing out some invisible wrinkle on his pants.

"Tell me the truth Stiles, how bad is it?"

[Or: The one where Stiles has scars, is more than a little fucked up, and Peter notices. He helps.]

[lowlaif]

I recall writing notes back when I wanted to remember rather than forget.

Despite not being sinistral, my handwriting's always been quite unfortunate, lopsided in a way that would leave its imprint by marking the outward-facing side of my palm with discoloration. An annoying circumstance, really. Still can't stand singing documents after all this time.

Lately, I've been thinking that's the same with speech. You say something, and a piece stays, as blurred and unintelligible as it is. It might be gone the next time you wash your hands. Or you used whatever the linguistic equivalent of a ball-point pen is; that smudge takes a bit longer to fade. So, when you say something horrible, and hours later finally take a deep breath and look at your palm, there's a dull red sprawl spread over your skin, not quite angry as it was before, but present nonetheless. Taunting somehow. Shameful. A tattoo you've gotten during a mental blackout and regretted ever since.

...

I talk too much.

I leave too many marks.

I talk and I talk and I think my hand doesn't have enough room to echo all the horrors I've let fall over my lips in a moment of perceived strength and objective weakness.

Then I hold my upward-facing palms under the tap for hours on end, like a prayer, but one particular pattern is still there, no matter how many times I've attempted to paint over it with prettier words. The few times my gaze doesn't remain glued to it, my thoughts stick instead, and I will always know it’s there, even if years of speaking have left a thick layer of ink on top.

I can still see it.

The first time I called myself worthless.

[asta-daily]

Inktober 2019 - 21 - Treasure

"Of the Shining Trapezohedron he speaks often, calling it a window on all time and space, and tracing its history from the days it was fashioned on dark Yuggoth, before ever the Old Ones brought it to earth. It was treasured and placed in its curious box by the crinoïd things of Antarctica, salvaged from their ruins by the serpent-men of Valusia... "

- The Haunter of the Dark, H.P. Lovecraft

***

"Il parle très souvent du Trapézohèdre étincelant qu’il définit comme une fenêtre ouverte sur le temps et l’espace, et dont il retrace l’histoire jusqu’à l’époque où il fut façonné sur la sinistre planète Yuggoth, avant que les Anciens l’aient apporté sur la Terre. Il fut recueilli et placé dans sa curieuse boîte par les habitants crinoïdes de l’Antarctique, avant de passer entre les mains des hommes-serpents de Valusia..."

- Celui qui hantait les ténèbres, H.P. Lovecraft

Inktober 2019 - Cultists Edition

Ink brush on A6 sketchbook / Encre au pinceau sur Carnet A6

[victoria-hyde]

Sinistre Sangfroid

The man leaped through the lush trees with the grace and precision of a coordinated monkey. He resisted the sudden urge to cackle at how exhilarating the activity was since he was attempting to be stealthy. A dramatic entrance would be key to his first impression. Having reached the meeting point, he front-flipped off a particularly high branch and landed directly in front of the man who hired him. He gave an extravagant bow, waving his hand down in front of him. Sangfroid brought his head up, tousled golden hair catching the light, and gave his mysterious employer his trademark smirk. Impatient tapping filled the air as the other man looked up from his watch.

"You," he spat out. "Are late." Sangfroid straightened out, brushed the creases out of his mud brown coat and gave his eyes a dramatic roll. He observed the other, admiring his black trench coat and captivating eyes.

"Better late than never," he smoothly replied. "Why exactly, did you call me here?"

"I have an assignment for you," Sangfroid nodded, indicating for him to continue. "I want you to get rid of Saracen Rue."

"I understand," Sinistre simply stated before leaping back up into the trees, leaving the company of the man with the golden eyes.

Sangfroid shifted the sword and gun attached to his waist and knocked on the apartment door. It was immediately opened to show the grinning face of Saracen Rue. He looked weary and dishevelled, suit rumpled and hair a mess. It wouldn't have surprised him if the man hadn't slept in a week. Sangfroid forced a friendly smile onto his face and invited himself in.

"How are you, Saracen?" He questioned, while taking a seat on the man's couch. Saracen seemed to relax and joined the assassin on the stained lounge.

"I'm fine, how are you?"

"I'm good, I'm good," he said mindlessly. Saracen stood up and made his way towards the kitchen. He opened the fridge and glanced back at his guest.

"Would you like a drink?" Sangfroid stiffened. Does Saracen know? He could be trying to poison him, but if he doesn't take the drink, he would seem suspicious.

"Tea please," he chimed, working the same lazy grin back onto his face. Saracen nodded and put on the kettle. He opened the cupboards and pulled out two cups. Sangfroid heard two chinks as they were placed on the counter.

"So, what have you been up to recently?" Saracen inquired. Sangfroid shrugged.

"Organising my thoughts, going on adventures. The usual. You?"

"Not much really," he chuckled to himself. "Just watching TV and talking. Taking it easy." The kettle finished and Saracen finished making the tea. He grabbed both cups and slowly walked over to the couch, tongue out in concentration. Sangfroid tried not to laugh at the face Rue was making. Saracen finally made it to the couch and passed him the tea before sinking into the cushions with a relieved sigh. Sinistre nursed the cup for a while and took a fake sip before placing the tea on the coffee table. He turned to Saracen.

"Do you know what I'm here for?" he asked, making Saracen pause his slurping.

"No, why are you here? I would assume you were here on business, but you're not exactly employed." Sangfroid internally smirked. He didn't know.

"First, before I tell you that," he began before unsheathing his sword and holding it over Saracen's lap. "I would like to get your opinion on my sword. I recently had it polished." Rue swivelled to face him until his back was against the end of the couch. He picked the sword up, ignoring the fact that his friend was still holding the handle. He brought it up to neck height and stared at it, inspecting the level of shininess. It was a nice level of shiny; a Victorian aristocrat shiny, rather than 80's disco dancer shiny.

"It looks quite nice-" he began before Sinistre launched forwards, knocking him onto his back and cementing the weapons place, poised just in front of his neck. Saracen tried to move his arms but soon realised that he was pinning them with his feet.

"You wanted to know why I'm here."

"Dexter, what-"

"I've been hired by Erskine to get rid of you."

"I still don't under-" this time Saracen cut himself off and Dexter watched the confusion and fear in his eyes turn into realisation, widening his eyes to an unhealthy size. "Sangfroid."

"Finally! The genius figures it out! Well done, excellent, have a cookie, etcetera-"

"Fight him Dexter! You're better than this! You don't want to do this!"

"Oh please," he drawled. "You know I'm not better than this. You're not getting Dexter back."

Saracen's face hardened. "Fine. Do it. Kill me. But realise this, someone will stop you. Whatever you and Goldie are planning, will not come to fruition." Saracen declared. "You will never succeed.'

'Dexter' laughed. "I don't want to kill you. I just want to get rid of you."

Saracen paled. "Dexter no-"

"Dexter yes." he interrupted. "Come on, Saracen. I want Brother Moralis. Let him come out. Then only Skulduggery and Ghastly will be left. Once they're dealt with, we, the alter egos of the magical society's heroes, can take over the world."

"What!? No! I'd never work with you!"

"We can also bring back the Faceless Ones," Sangfroid sung, with the tone of a salesperson offering a tantalising deal.

"That just makes it worse!"

"But more appealing to Moralis, hmm?"

"Skulduggery will stop you. He doesn't have an evil alter ego. I can't hold out much longer, but I know he will stop you," Sangfroid burst out into hysterics at Saracen's feeble speech. "What's- what's s-so funny?"

Sinistre pretended to wipe away a tear of laughter. "Honey, Skulduggery doesn't have an evil alter ego? Hilarious! He has the best one. Great for killing things."

"What are you talking about?"

"Sweetie," Dexter said gently, like a parent breaking devastating news to a child. "Skulduggery's Lord Vile." Sangfroid got off Saracen, settled back into the couch and sipped his tea. Saracen wasn't going anywhere.

"No no no no no no no..." Rue muttered in pain, violently gripping the sides of his head. Sangfroid patiently waited. "That can't be true! No no no no no no! No-"

Silence. Suddenly, there was silence and Sinistre Sangfroid knew that Saracen Rue was now Brother Moralis. He turned to face his old friend, who now had a manic grin plastered across his face.

"Mission accomplished."

 Brother Moralis opened his eyes for the first time in 300 years, to be greeted with his favourite sight in the world. The devilish face of Sinistre Sangfroid. He closed his eyes and took in a deep breath of air, allowing a manic grin to split his face.

“Long time no see, Sinistre,” he shivered in delight, still sitting on the floor. Sinistre rolled his eyes in agreement.

“Come on, get up. Off the floor, yes like that. Now head to your closet and get changed- and he’s gone,” Sinistre’s distant chuckles sounded as Moralis browsed through his wardrobe. He frowned, parting the sea of brown suits in two, looking for something more flamboyant. Where was his usual suit? His teeth ground together in worry, ignoring the frantic screech of coat-hangers on metal. A small squeak of anticipation escaped his lips as his eyes met the orderly mess of black and white stripes, bordered with circular cufflinks. His eyes sparkled upon seeing the sign of his Faceless Gods, even if it was only cufflinks.

Sinistre waited patiently for Brother Moralis to finish picking an outfit. Cold tea oiled its way down his throat, making him grimace and set down the cup. That was awful. He sighed in amusement. Moralis would probably be a while, that man was so chaotic, who knows how long it would take him to pick an outfit. As if to contradict his very thoughts, Sinistre heard the muffled thumps of the man’s footsteps. Sinistre brushed himself off and stood up. All he could smell was an obscene amount of hairspray. He grimaced at the disjointed laugh his companion gave as his nose wrinkled in distaste.

“Did you really have to use that much hairspray?” he asked, giving Moralis the most immaculate eyebrow raise he could muster. Brother snorted.

“How do I look?” he chimed, giving Sangfroid an exaggerated twirl.

“Like Beetlejuice.” Brother grinned.

“Perfect!”

 Prefect Misfit was poised to strike, ready to the side of Ghastly's door. He knew it wouldn't be too long now until one of his 'friends' were to enter. The question was just whom. He anxiously scratched at his knuckles, unused to the feel of leather rub against his skin, and quickly fell back into a fighting stance. Being caught unaware in your own ambush, was a humiliation he refused to suffer. He idly picked the loose threads of his muddy red vest, uncomfortable in tailored clothes, before once again snapping into position. He bit his lip, cursing his short attention span. He stood still for a few more seconds, leg bobbing up and down. He was sick of this. Misfit wandered off to find a dagger.

 The Man with The Golden Eyes leaned against an uneven stone wall in a distasteful alley. He shifted his weight, feeling the cool stones dig awkwardly in his back. He glanced down upon hearing a scratching sound, which turned out to be litter rather than mice. He scowled, displeased at his friend’s rendezvous point. A waft of peppermint skulked up his nostrils, and The Man with The Golden Eyes looed up, meeting pitch black eyes.

“Speak of the devil…” he muttered. The demonic creature in front of him had Satan’s signature written across his face, several pointed teeth, lethal clawed hands and a more rugged face than Anton Shudder usually possessed. It was strange and disconcerting to see Gist so corporeal. Gist crossed his arms, drawing The Man with The Golden Eyes’ eyes to glance judgementally at his hands. “So, how should I address you? I don’t think I can just call you ‘Gist?’ Is that rude, or…?”

Gist grunted, bored. The other man’s metallic eyes lit up with amusement, the other having obviously thought of an idea.

“I’m calling you Edward,” he stated with friendly certainty. Edward’s eyebrow questioningly raised. “It fits! You match the description of Edward Hyde from the original ‘The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde’ novella by Robert Louis Stevenson.” Edward said nothing, but the golden-eyed man got the distinct impression that if Hyde’s iris, pupil and sclera weren’t the same sable tint, he would be rolling his eyes. “Thank god you’re here. I can’t stand being in this alley for one more moment!”

“Can’t leave. Others not… here,” Hyde snarled, his voice not dissimilar to the sound of sandpaper scraping across gravel. Seeing his companion’s displeased look, he pointed up, towards the flat roofs.

The Man with The Golden Eyes raised an eyebrow. “Are you proposing we wait for the others on Ghastly’s roof?” Hyde grunted in affirmation. The Man with The Golden Eyes threw his head back, chortling. “Why not?” He declared before leaping onto the pipes and scampering up onto the roof.

 As Skulduggery Pleasant hurriedly shuffled down the filthy excuse for a street Ghastly lived on, a thick blanket of unease settled over his bones. He paused at Ghastly’s door, holding the breath he doesn’t have, thinking he heard a crunch behind him. Spinning around, he saw nothing. Uneasily, he went to knock on the door, only to have it push forwards under his touch. Alarm bells sounded loudly in his skull, immediately putting him on guard. Ghastly’s door should not be unlocked at this time of night, unless he was expecting someone, which he shouldn’t be. Skulduggery was coming quite unannounced. He fully pushed open the door, manipulating the air to silence the sounds of his gun being loaded and his footsteps. He poked his head inside, checking for an ambush. Clear. He inched in, creeping across the room, finger lightly poised on the trigger. The first thing he noticed was the lack of the disturbance in the air which was made by Ghastly’s regular tea brewing. Something was undeniably wrong. He continued walking forwards, when suddenly Ghastly walked out from around the corner, bearing a usually indecipherable expression. It was a farrago of confusion, panic, boredom and delight. He lowered his gun.

“Oh, Ghastly. Thank god. I thought you were someone else. On a more chipper note, I think someone has broken into your shop,” Skulduggery breathed in relieved surprise. Ghastly scrunched up his face, looking for all the world like a trodden-on kitten; scandalized and confused.

“What?”

“Your door is unlocked.”

“Oh,” Ghastly dragged out, flapping his hand dismissively. “That. I left it like that way. I was waiting for someone.”

“Oh,” Skulduggery said, feeling slightly foolish at this point. “Who were you waiting for?”

“Uh-,” Ghastly fumbled, clearly trying to come up with a lie on the spot or recover from instantaneous temporary amnesia. Something, perhaps common sense, told Skulduggery it was not the latter. The quandary though, was why Ghastly felt the need to lie to him. Who was he expecting, and what about them could possibly inspire Ghastly to lie to him about their identity? Was he even expecting anyone in the first place? He decided against it, more sinister thoughts unwillingly filling his head. “I- um. I was expecting you?”

“Falsehood,” he interjected. “I came here unannounced.” He began circling his best friend, suspiciously inspecting him like this was the first time he had ever seen him. “And you know what else is strange?” He asked.

“What?” Ghastly responded, nervously picking at the loose threads on his crimson vest with sweaty hands. Another oddity Skulduggery noted. Ghastly usually wore emerald.

Skulduggery halted his circling, having seemingly finished his inspection. “The lack of disturbance in the air from your chronic tea drinking.” Skulduggery glared worriedly and suspiciously at his best friend, practically able to the see the anxious sweat beading is forehead. Skulduggery decided to test something. “Take a seat, seeing that you’re up, there was something I wanted to discuss with you anyway.” Ghastly did as asked and Skulduggery head into the kitchen, much to the bewilderment of his friend. “Would you like a tea? It appears you haven’t had one in a while, and it seems to be putting you on edge.” He knew this wasn’t the case, but he needed an alibi for this experiment. A curiously observed a wave of sudden rage wash over Ghastly’s features, wearing them unfamiliarly.

“I swear!” He declared, “If ONE more person offers me tea, I will scald them with it!” The rage dissipated as quickly as it arrived, leaving Ghastly’s face slack and horrified. “Wait- That’s not what I- That’s not what I meant!” He covered his mouth, fearful of his own outburst. Or rather, Skulduggery concluded, what he would do to him because of it. Skulduggery came back from the kitchen, and took a seat next to him, watching intently.

“Fascinating.”

“I-I- What are you doing?!” Ghastly near shrieked.

“Ghastly,” he said, his voice taking on a strange tone of voice. “What is my favourite book?”

“A bit random, there. Isn’t it something by Charles Dickens? Great Expectations? That’s by Charles Dickens, isn’t it? Or was it Dracula…” Skulduggery could tell he didn’t know, and was taking wild jabs.

“Great Expectations was indeed written by Charles Dickens, but that isn’t my favourite book. My favourite book is Treasure Island.” Ghastly always knew his favourite book was ‘Treasure Island’. A theory begun to Frankenstein itself together in the back of his mind. “Ghastly, I know this may sound odd, but what is your favourite colour?” Skulduggery knew full well that it was green, but he wanted to know if Ghastly also knew that.

“Red,” he responded. “It’s definitely red.” Skulduggery looked this man up and down, a realisation clicking in his head. The stance, the nervousness, the inconsistent knowledge, the lies, the refusal of tea and the lose strands of cloth on his vest.

“You’re not Ghastly, are you?”

“Wh- What are you-”  

“Don’t try to lie to me. I don’t know who you are, but you’ve done something to my best friend, and you’re going to tell me who you are and what you’ve done with him,” Skulduggery stated, voice and mannerism having lost all friendless and edged into hostility. He stood up. The imposter’s expression suddenly melted and twisted into one of animalistic antagonism, confirming his suspicions.

“Or what?” He spat, quite literally too. Skulduggery felt the air shift behind the fake Ghastly, feeling him grip something. A glint on the wall behind the imposter caught his attention, a glint that could only be caused by light reflecting off metal. He had a knife. The imposter lunged, knife glinting in the low lighting.

 “Why the devil are you on the roof?” Moralis aggressively whispered at his golden-eyed friend. Nowhere near as amused as Sangfroid, who had already eagerly scaled the wall to greet Gist and Goldie.

“I was not going to keep waiting in that grimy alley!” He whisper-shouted back.

“My posh of you, your highness!” He responded. “Are you going to come back down? We do need to infiltrate Ghastly’s shop to wake up Misfit! And Skulduggery’s there to now, double the trouble!” Brother Moralis heard Goldie curse.

 “Be right down!” He turned to face Sangfroid and Gist. “Hyde, Sangfroid, we’re going to infiltrate the shop now.”

“Nice,” Sangfroid whispered, Edward grunting in agreement. “What did you just call Gist?’”

“I named him Edward Hyde, after that one murderous bloke.”

“Neat.”

“Skulduggery’s arrived.”

“Intent on foiling evil, whether he does it consciously or not.” The Man with The Golden Eyes nodded, monitoring Hyde’s descent. He reached the bottom and he reached a leg over the sign, feet finding purchase on the piping.

“Anyway, you named him Hyde, what should we call you?” Sangfroid asked.

“What?” The Man with The Golden Eyes, yelped, nearly slipping in surprise. “Dexter! Now is not the time!”

“First of all: Ouch. I’m Sangfroid,” he corrected, beginning to clamber down after The Man with The Golden Eyes.

“Yes. Sorry Sinistre, I’m just frustrated.” The man in question nodded in understanding.

“I’m going to call you Remus.”

“Is that an insult?!”

“No, after Remus from ‘Romulus and Remus’, not Remus Crux. You know what, maybe that’s not the best name.”

“You think?” They reached the ground and Sinistre once more faced The Man with Golden Eyes.

“I will find out what to call you.”

“Oh god.” Sangfroid’s blue eyes sparkled with mischief.

“Come on!” Moralis hissed, already slipping in the door.

 The imposter and Skulduggery wrestled on the floor, throwing punches and dodging stabs. He snarled, slowly losing the fight, pinned under the skeleton. Skulduggery pushed himself harder, knowing he was gaining the upper hand. He just needed a few more seconds… The door slammed open with a deafening bang, that didn’t register over his concentration. Footsteps, shouting, a sharp pain in the back of his skull and then darkness.

 Pleasant crumpled, and Prefect Misfit took this as his opportunity to slide out from under the man. He grinned up at the intruders. Gist was holding a frying pan to where his opponents head used to be.

“You knocked him out,” he exclaimed, delighted. Gist tilted his head. The Man with The Golden Eyes approached him.

“Looks like you got out on your own,” he observed. Misfit grasped his outstretched hand getting up.

“May I ask what you’re all doing here?”

“No, you may bow and exalt!” Moralis sung, dancing around madly, his funk seemingly lifted.

Sangfroid amusedly shook his head. “We’re going to take over the world, and decided we wanted the whole alter-ego Dead Men group,” he coolly announced. Then added, “I don’t think all of us have ever been together in one place before.”

“When can we begin? There isn’t much to do around here.”

“As soon as Lord Vile has joined the party.”

Misfit blinked. “Not that I care, but he has some serious explaining to do once he wakes up.”

 The Skeleton Detective woke up tied to a chair. Which was quite humiliating in all honesty. He would have escaped using his magic too, but whoever knocked him out must have had magic-binding handcuffs. He struggled uselessly against his bonds. The clack of boots reached him and his head shot up, meeting golden eyes.

“Erskine,” he muttered, “You traitor.”

“Hmm. Quite,” Ravel hummed back. The rest of the Dead Men stepping in behind him. His gaze fixated on the Ghastly imposter. “But not quite.”

“He’s not Ghastly-”

“We are well aware of that, Pleasant. You see, we’re all not quite The Dead Men.”

“Who are you then? Is this a joke?”

“I don’t have a name, he’s Sangfroid, Hyde, Misfit,” Misfit gave a little wave. “And Moralis. And you, you’re Lord Vile.” The Man with The Golden Eyes flippantly stated, still somehow seeming intimidating. Skulduggery stiffed, looking down in shame.

“So, what are you going to do to me? I’ve imagined this moment for so long that I just…” he trailed off, refusing to meet anyone’s gaze. The metallic-eyed man bent down, grabbing Skulduggery’s jaw firmly with his hand, forcing him to meet his scorching, golden, gaze.

“We want Lord Vile.” With nothing left to lose, shadows consumed him, and the ropes fell to the ground.

[tesworldthink]

Sinistral Elf

The Sinistral Elves,[1] also known as Lefthanded Elves[2] or Left-Handed Elves,[1] were a race of Mer who lived on the continent of Yokuda. It is implied they were entirely destroyed by the Redguards in a war between the two races, and the survivors died with the sinking of Yokuda.[2][UL 1] They are thought to have created the Orichalc Tower of Yokuda.[2] 

History

The Sinistral Elves had, at one point, formed an Empire that stretched across the entire continent of Yokuda, before the land was submerged. The Empire was said to be four times as large as the Septim Empire.[UL 1]

For thousands of years, the Sinistral Elves were bitter enemies of the ancient Redguards, the Yokudans. During the Merethic Era, the Na-Totambu warred to a standstill to decide who would lead the charge against the Elves. The Yokudan deity Leki intervened and a leader was decided, and war was then declared on the Elves. Diagna, an avatar of the deity HoonDing, brought Orichalcum weapons to the Yokudans which were instrumental in defeating the Elves.[2]

Legacy

No Sinistral Elves were reported to have reached Tamriel. Their final defeat in the Yokudan-Sinistral War and the sinking of their continent implied that the race was all but extinct.[2][1] The Yokudans' hatred of the Sinistral Elves stayed with them on Tamriel, as their extermination of elven settlements in Hammerfell was also fueled by their past.[3] Their descendants, the Redguards, no longer speak of them, as to recall their abominations only "serves to darken their days."[1]

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

Леворукие эльфы (ориг. Lefthanded Elf) или Йокумеры жили на Йокуде, родине редгардов, до её погружения под воду.

Леворукие эльфы были отличными воинами и оружейниками. Также считается, что леворукие эльфы создали Орихалковую Башню Йокуды. Своё название они получили из-за того, что в большинстве своём были левшами. Подразумевается, что все они были уничтожены во время войны с редгардами. По преданию Диагна принёс оружие из орихалка, чтобы йокуданцы победили леворуких эльфов.

[kilaem]

a Blood and Wine au for @dexterous-sinistrous (hearts of stone)

Some say we strayed from the path of virtue, and the gods sent the beast to teach us a lesson.

The guard’s body tumbled down the stairs, lifeless, as Derek panted for breath against the door. The stench of blood lingering in the air was dizzying, but he paid it little attention. Blood never affected him the way it had with Boyd for a time, never something so addicting that it was worth losing himself to it. His claws retracted as he took a moment to collect himself, his features shrinking back to human, but Derek kept his eyes shut for just a few seconds more as he pushed the door open.

And there he stood. After years, they were no longer apart. “Stiles!” Derek rushed forward, taking his face in his hands, scanning him intently for injuries — yet all he could find was the evidence of the years that passed and the reminder of how quickly humans aged. “Are… Are you hurt? If any of them…”

“You know me. I’d never let them hurt me,” Stiles smiled weakly, his voice wavering in disbelief. His accent was music to Derek’s ears as his arms curled around Derek’s waist, clutching onto him. “I just waited for you to come.”

“I… I didn’t know where to look,” Derek pulled Stiles into his arms without a second of hesitation, holding him as tightly as he could without hurting him, “They threatened to kill you… I…” The words caught in his throat and Derek pulled back to look at him, before his own shame took over and he could no longer meet his eye. “Forgive me. I failed you.”

“No, no you—” Stiles cut himself off as the Boyd and that witcher, Allison, ran into the room, a frown forming on his brow as he warily took them in.

Derek could not help his gaze, drawn as it was to Stiles, only half paying attention to the words the other two shared.

“...Told me where I’d find Mieczyslaw...”

His own part in this was fulfilled, he had Stiles once more, and he could stop the killings forced upon him. But watching Stiles’ expression go carefully blank pulled Derek into the words being exchanged.

“Said he was in a room with a tower… very one we’re in right now. Which, incidentally, looks nothing like a prison cell,” Allison spoke, staring fixedly at the roaring fireplace, while Boyd’s attention shifted over to him and Stiles. “And it just so happens there's a carafe full of wine here. Bet its stolen Sangreal.”

Derek noticed the roll of Stiles’ eyes and the tick in his jaw, how tightly he was holding himself now compared to how relaxed he was when it was just them in the room. He could practically see the gears turning in Stiles’ head, but he could not guess what the man was thinking. But by his expression it couldn’t be good.

“What’s your point?” Stiles asked sharply, turning to her.

“Stop playing dumb. I know everything. Your plan, that this was part of it.”

“Witcher, what is this?” Derek lowly interjected, stepping closer to Stiles.

“Sorry, Derek.” Allison spoke frankly, “You’ve been had.”

He knew that the witcher was Boyd’s dear friend, but that did not stop him from shifting to stand in front of Stiles, his fingers itching for another fight with the hunter. Stiles wouldn’t. There was no way.

“My friend, please… You must listen to what Allison has to say,” Boyd said quietly, never taking his eyes off of Derek even as he moved to intercept him if need be.

“Stiles isn’t his real name. This is Mieczyslaw, and Mieczyslaw is cousin to Lydianna Henrietta, the duchess of Toussaint.”

Derek began to pace as she spoke, making sure to keep Stiles to his back; out of danger, out of harm's way. Protected. He could feel the anger rolling under his skin, trailing up his spine. His fangs itched at his gums. “Wh… What nonsense is this?”

“Mieczyslaw was the heir but was banished as a child… But it seems he trekked back here recently. Moved into Dun Tynne and ran a vandaguild out of here,” the witcher spoke bluntly, her eyes following each of Derek’s steps.

“You think you’ve got it all figured—”

“Sent a man called The Cintrian to Beauclair,” she interrupted Stiles, not giving him a second to speak. “To steal some wine for him, wine reserved for the ducal family. Cintrian led us to him. Caught him later stealing a jewel Mieczyslaw had gotten from his mother as a child.”

Derek stopped pacing, staring at the fire as the thoughts rushed through his head. It wasn’t true. What sort of human would think to even try manipulate a vampire?

“Sorry, Derek. He used you. Part of his plan.”

“My name… is Stiles,” he spat quietly, fury lacing his words.

His eyes went to Stiles, silently pleading for anything other than a confirmation. But his eyes were hard until they met Derek’s, turning soft and pained, his lips parting to offer an explanation. And then… Stiles looked down. A sharp exhale left Derek as he turned to the window, his fingers gripping the window pane as he looked at the night outside. The bodies littering the grounds that he and Boyd had murdered to help Allison, all for nothing.

Stiles’ footsteps echoed quietly, no doubt too soft for a human to hear, but his heartbeat was faster than Derek had ever heard it. He tried to beat down the fury he felt, turning his head to the sound of his approach, when a hand gently settled on his shoulder.

It was faster than Derek anticipated to move, red colouring his vision, his hand going to the throat faster than the blink of an eye. Hands scrabbled at his own, fingers trying to pry away from the skin when the red dissipates, leaving a terrified Stiles in its wake. Derek releases him as fast as he can, but the sound of Stiles gasping for air rings in his ears.

The sickening, hollow feeling in Derek’s gut swells with disgust at himself. It’s more intense than it has ever been, more so than the forced killings he did under the threat of Stiles’ life. He cannot take his eyes off of him, unable to deny the truth, but there’s more than fear in Stiles’ expression. His own fury, but it’s not directed at Derek.

“You will come to Tesham Mutna and explain all. If you do not, I will raze Beauclair to the ground. This I promise you,” Derek steps towards him, eyes lingering on the bruises already forming around his neck.  Stiles flinches away from him, and he wants nothing more than to cut his own hand off again, to banish it for being the thing that hurt Stiles, even for a moment. Even after knowing. “You’ve three days. I shall be waiting.”

Stiles doesn’t move from the wall, his eyes following Derek as he shifted away, stalking towards the window before vanishing into a faint trail of smoke. His mind was racing with a thousand thoughts at once, trying to figure out his best course of action.

“He just fly off?” Allison asked in bewilderment, the silence in the room shattering.

“He did not wish to act rashly. He’s gone to soothe his nerves,” Boyd said, his stare feeling like judgement on Stiles’ skin.

As if he was any help; Stiles had noticed him halt the witcher from drawing her sword when Derek had him by the throat. He would probably like nothing more than to see Stiles as a lifeless corpse. Derek was his friend, after all. They would have an unlimited lifetime to sort out their differences. Stiles slowly stepped towards the window, taking in the night sky and the darkness of the world. How he longed to see the beauty of this foul place, after so many years of avoiding it.

Allison spoke quietly, talking to Boyd, but now there was an urgency to it. “Think he’ll do it—make good on his threat?”

“I cannot say. He can be unpredictable when fury consumes him.”

“I shall go to him,” Stiles rasped, voice hoarse.

Boyd looked at him with evident surprise, “Come again? After what he just…?”

“You don’t know Derek like I do,” he said as he turned to face them, slowly gaining his strength back. Stiles shook his head, knowing it was the right thing. If he didn’t, Derek would believe the worst of him. “If I don’t do as he says… he truly will destroy the city. He’s more than capable of it.”

“Seems you’ve got some last scraps of honor left,” Allison said, her words leaving a sour wake in Stiles’ chest.

“Honor means nothing this godforsaken place,” he sneered, the fury he had held back finally unleashed. “Tell me, do you trust a trail of breadcrumbs so obviously laid out for you? You’re a fucking fool. Whatever Derek does now, is on you. If you had just let me explain—”

“Your cousin hired me to—”

“They were going to hurt Lydia—and my father! I had no choice!”

[erisbliss]

Relentless

"Elle est là depuis si longtemps, tortionnaire immortelle.

Elle ombre mes matins, traçant chaque mouvement. Elle berce mes nuits, parasitant mes rêves, nourrissant mes cauchemars.

Je la sens s'imposer comme un cancer; chaque jour plus oppressante, chaque minute plus persistante, chaque seconde plus forte.

Ses bras m'enserrent et me serrent, je suis enfermée, prisonnière. Captive d'une geôlière sans pitié qui, dans son hypnotique noirceur, vient presser contre ma gorge ses griffes glaciales en me murmurant des mots amers.

Dérobée de mes sens, j'apparais vulnérable, pour un instant.

Elle s'insinue, l'acharnée! Si profondemment ancrée qu'elle semble gravée sur mes os.

Peau ternie, larmes infectées, âme écorchée. Quelle sinistre auteure!

Elle sera ma fin, souveraine de mon destin. La peur.

It's everywhere. Taking over every inch of my body, corrupting my mind, and tainting my soul.

It speaks to me in dreams and nightmares. Bitter whispers of agony.

It's becoming more real than I have ever been.

Soon warmth will be cold, redness will be grey, I will sink into oblivion, and Fear will delight."

Bliss

Source

[awaysantiana]

just curious; how does everyone view jim's relationship to their gender? do you think they always knew/suspected they were nb, or do you think they only figured it out after they started disguising themselves as a man?

[vulpixsinistre]

For the reputation ask game: when I see your url I always think of Sly Cooper and The Sinistres. Speaking of SC I really need to finish that 😭

Heck yeah, those are two of the most important things to me!! 💯

And yesss you totally should, games 2 and 3 are awesome. You can meet the sly cooper contessa, and also Don Octavio the opera singer mafia lion. Also I’d be interested in hearing your thoughts on the fourth game, which I never got around to playing.