#Beware the Slender Man

[unadulteratedsoulsweets]

A DC X DP IDEA #38

Harbringer

Imagine dis…

I’ve always wondered why despite Gotham being old as time only has a single nursery rhyme. We all know that nursery rhymes have a connection to real-life events no matter how gruesome the truth behind each upbeat tone. Yet in DC particularly in Gotham, there was only one nursery rhyme that kept being mentioned, and that one is the only thing that turned out to be true aka the Talons.

Why aren't there more legends? Or myths in the human world? DC is a breeding ground of legends and myths turning out to be true…

…

A thick fog covers the streets of Gotham, draping every street, alley, and rooftop with only shadows and the occasional shrieks of stray animals to be heard. The Talons may have their nursery rhyme that supposedly strikes fear in the hearts of Gothamites but also serves as a silent warning that hides behind such an innocent rhyme of a child.

However, despite the Talon’s rhyme being sparsely hummed, it is an even more ancient and more forgotten rhyme that only the older and elderly still remember the bits and pieces of such rhyme.

"Beware the headless rider at night,

In shadows deep, he brings his blight.

Green mist flows where his head should lie,

One look, and then you die."

The elderly used to think that it was Gotham’s version of a Dullahan that came from an ancient Celtic god that spread its influence in Gotham.  Nevertheless, it was repeated in hush whispers as if no one wanted to speak loudly, to avoid said gaze. As it was not a man nor any creature they had seen, if you have the gaze of it then you only have mere moments to pray to whatever god you believe in for salvation before its scythe drops down on you like a guillotine.

…

One foggy night, a Joker card slid slowly on the sidewalk outside an abandoned Gotham warehouse, and a loud, piercing laugh from within disturbed the eerie calm. The Joker cherished his next plot, his next punchline to the bats, until the sound of hooves broke through his cackles.

And through through the thick fog, he appeared.

The single nursery rhyme that the elderly remember only bits and pieces of its lyrics, whose reputation was as old as Gotham itself. Mounted on a black stallion with eyes that burned like molten embers, he was a nightmare made of darkness. In one hand, he held a scythe, the blade a slender, vicious arc of gleaming green metal. His other arm clutched his head—a pale and dead face with black hair and a pair of blue eyes that smoldered with icy, unwavering malice, linked to his neck by a moving strand of green smoke.

The Joker, perhaps the only man insane enough not to flee in the face of this nightmare, grinned even wider.

He cackled and laughed like the madman he is and exclaimed if he was one of the bat's new brood, or maybe a meta that had a grudge against him, and so on. Ignoring the shiver that crept behind his mind, and the slight twitch in his ever-confident smile that he usually uses to bare his teeth in bold defiance.

A shadow swept over the cracked glass, and he noticed it. That cold, lifeless head in the rider's grasp, stared at him with eyes that beheld every twisted corner of his psyche. The green mist filled the room, wrapping around Joker's ankles and pressing against his chest, chilly as the nothingness.

His scythe rose in a slow, methodical arc, cutting through the mist as if it were silk. Joker's grin vanished as an icy weight fell to his bones. His heart stopped, a chilly, unnatural stillness seizing him as if the air around him had frozen. The green mist tightened, coiling around his neck, filling his lungs and pulling the last wisps of air from his lips.

He swung his scythe and sliced through the darkness in a smooth, flowing stroke. And at that final, fleeting second, Joker saw his reflection in the rider's eyes, twisted and broken, captured in a flash of green.

Then quiet.

When the fog slowly disappeared, the Joker lay sprawled on the ground, his lifeless eyes staring at the darkness, as his infamous smile that used to be a symbol of fear in Gotham now has that uncertainly or some call it fear, forever etched on his face.

He rode away, going back into Gotham's shadowy streets. Somewhere ahead, his next prey waited, blissfully oblivious to the approaching judgment.

Following his departure, the nursery rhyme floated back into the night, scaring the elders who were blissfully sleeping, and woke up in alert as if they were back within their parent’s embrace after being scared of the old rhymes that their parents had just whispered to them in the dead of night.

…

Danny used to be a protector on both sides of his ghostly and humanity side. As years pass by, he the same faces of both the GIW and his parents committing the same atrocities, escaping justice time and again. Each innocent ghostly life and even the ghostly animals and blobs became a haunting reminder of the limits of mercy.

When the Observants summoned him, they gave him two options: remain powerless as innocent souls were lost or take on a new purpose—one that only someone with a heart as broken as his own could bear. They dubbed him the Harbringer, the one who would see that the irredeemable face the consequences of their brutality, that day he became both the judge and executioner of both realms. Though his duty didn’t stop between the two realms, He traveled in between dimensions using the countless doors in the Infinite Realms as a way to fulfill his duties.

He reluctantly accepted, and with it came the curse: he would no longer feel warmth or joy from those he once loved. His sole companion would be the ghostly steed that delivers him to his next destination and the faint echoes of a nursery rhyme that accompanied him in each timeline and in between worlds.

Now, he hovered over countless worlds, as a headless specter burdened by a task no one else could bear—a duty that he carried alone, all in the hope that one day, he could finally regain the peace he had long lost.

…

PS: If someone out there wants to continue or make a fic about this you are free to do so, don’t forget to tag me though.

PPS: I will be a bit busy so let me just post this early.

[smileycarat]

delulu thoughts: jeonghan ver

a/n: just me fangirling about jeonghan lolz, sorry for potential typos

whenever i see jeonghan, i automatically think he’s such a gentle kisser

don’t get me wrong, i do think he can have those more heated moments and such, and i would later love to explore that in another fic

but something about the thought of just lounging together on a sunday morning and him giving you the softest kisses throughout the day i aM SEVERELY UNWELL

just enjoying both of each other’s presence away from the public and the limelight that seems to follow him everyday

being in the comfort of your own home where he gets to let lose and relax without constantly being aware of what happens around him in public

having the opportunity to see how he’s like behind closed doors and to experience the way he cups your face with his sweater paws and kisses your brow-bone first, then your cheekbone, then your nose, and finally your lips with the most feather-like kisses there is

being able to wake up to him softly tracing the bridge of your nose and then softly your cheekbone as you wake

you being the first person he speaks to in the morning, his voice still rough from sleep, and you being the last person he speaks to before bed, his voice laced with sleepiness but still pushing through to make sure he wishes you goodnight even if you’re already asleep the moment your head hits the pillow

i think a lot of people would expect him to be slightly chaotic based of how he sometimes presents himself in gose or concerts and yes he can be chaotic, but he’s a gentle chaotic (idek if that makes sense???)

he will sometimes surprise you with the most odd things out of nowhere, like that one time you had a little bit of frosting on your nose from biting into a cupcake

mans is giggling at your appearance and you’re confused because you don’t know what has set him off this time and you’re just looking at him like ???

and he just jokingly rolls his eyes, makes a tsk noise while shaking his head but reaches out to hold your jaw to stop you from moving

then he proceeds to just lick off the frosting off your nose

“what? i couldn’t just leave you like this without telling you” he says after your wide eyed expression

“you could have used a napkin like a normal person!”

he giggles at the way you roll your eyes and pulls you back by the crook of your elbow as you start to move away

“look, we’re even now” he says after he smears frosting on his lips

you both could just be relaxing on the couch laying down and on opposite ends, but he always has either a leg or an arm extended to have contact with you

is completely the type to pull your legs up to his lap to rub at your ankle

or be the type to use his slender hands to knead at the knots between your shoulder blades

i could see him liking to lay down on top of you during a nap and kissing you right under your ear all the way down to your collarbone

this isn’t even in an explicit manner, he just likes to do it for the sake of doing it (also loves the giggle he gets out of you if you’re feeling ticklish)

i could see him as liking to be the one to stay in on his days off and just lounging in matching sweats with you

but also willing and always ready to take a quick trip down to the convenience store with you past midnight in your matching sweats and slippers to grab a snack

absolutely WILL hold your hand all the way to and from the convenience store even though it’s just a few minutes walk

beware, he does not like when you get separated by a street lamp and will pull you to his side so you don’t have to unlink your hands

just a few delulu thoughts about jeonghan <3

[bloodrelationsofheavenandearth]

hold my hand (as long as you want to)

˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗ | desc; how does it feel to hold a hand, one that fits as if it were meant to do so with your own?

˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗ | pairings; barnabas tharmr : clive rosfield : benedikta harman : cidolfus telamon : dion lesage : joshua rosfield : jill warrick : hugo kupka -> x gn!reader

˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗ | mlist

holding hands with clive is a bit awkward- the first few times, especially. your hands will bump together, fingers half mangled and mashed together; the first few times are those for trying. his hands are warm, always. warm from the heat of the fire they produce, warm from his own nerves that heat his palms and make his skin perspire, warm from nervous tendencies where he wrings his hands together or against his clothes; they are warm, but earnest, as is clive himself, to be held just as earnestly.

when holding hands with benedikta, beware; she is always thinking on ways to pull you in closer. scheming away, thinking of an advantage to seek out further contact with the skin of her beloved. her hands are calloused along her palms from long years of swordplay, though they are long from loosing their softness. typically she prefers to link just a few fingers together- perhaps just pinkies- and progress her way to pressing your palms together, arms knocking together if walking and body creeping closer if simply sat or layed together.

joshua’s hands are softer than one might expect; perhaps even after so many years, certain self care habits are engrained, perhaps it’s his preference in not using a blade perhaps it’s just something so.. joshua, that it just is. his fingers are long and slender, like one might picture of a pianist, slight calluses formed on his thumb and the heel of his palm juxtapose the other parts of his hands. holding hands with joshua is like a new spring- a rebirth for your emotions and his, life anew, peace, every time you hold his hand. the feeling of home.

as much of a titan of a man hugo is, his hands are surprising in their dexterity. large fingers and even larger hands work tirelessly, work until his hands are practically dust so that they may curl around your fingers and your hands. all he wants is their reciprocal touch, their wandering over his- simply holding, admiring the security each lover brings to the other through simple touches. and he does, really does try, to convey the cadence of his admiration through the touch of his hands to your own- caressing your palms, rough fingers dragging over knuckles and lips ghosting over fingertips.. sometimes simple adoration is all he needs.

the feeling of his hands is a conundrum- dion’s hands both provide shelter in their adoration and cause calamity in their overwhelming sweetness. worn but well cared for, his hands are those of a warrior, blemished yet soft and dexterous while while still remaining strong. his thumb is somehow always dragging over your palm- slowly and in small circles when calm, backwards and forwards over your knuckles when sad, gripped a smidge too tight in anxious moments.. his hands, ones that will always seek to cradle, will always seek your hands out.

though his hands are clumsy and calloused, barnabas will never reject the offer to hold your hand. call him greedy, he’s perfectly fine with the acceptance of such a title, just please keep your hands pressed into his. let him feel your fingers tracing the backs of his palms, the dull thrum of your pulse in your fingertips and the one more steady at the junction of your wrist. let him sink into his subconscious, let him feel you, feel how real you are and how steady your presence is in front of him. please stay close to him, let him have this.

upon first thought, holding hands with jill would not ever lack sincerity- she has such honesty that she wears like a suit of armour, such sincerity that breaks through the crack of every falsehood that ever has been, is or will be. holding jill’s hand is like the first night sleeping on clean linen, like the reprieve of being rebuilt with cool air after standing outside in the summer heat to melt, like dandelion fuzz in the wind or the satisfaction one feels upon returning home after a long trip away. holding hands with jill is kisses to knuckles in quiet moments and whispered confessions in moments of twilight wakefulness.

scars, burns and other marks in every shape and size may litter the skin of his hands and arms- his entire body really- but cid’s hands, mighty as they are and have ever been, will always be tender upon the first contact with yours. the faded and fresh scars on his hands, from scrap ups as a younger man and years of continuous use of a blade make his skin rough and raised, not at all smooth but with its own story to tell. each scar, each burn and old battle wound is worn with pride- he will tell you the story of each and ever one (no matter how silly some may be, believe me some are), with an arm around your waist and one hand holding yours, mapping out the stories of the marks on his skin.

˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗ | notes; first post done weeeeee!! :D (mayb i’m jus thirsty for content that this was my first one too) i might do more of this same thing for dif fandoms depending on how i feel

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ hiebies 2023 ©

[bored-trans-orchidsexual]

Hijack Musings

Why not accent yet another chapter 5 re-read with some more character analysis, of that chapter's star, the main reason chapter 5 *must* be re-read at least twice to get it all, the artificial boychild Hyjack. These Musings will include spoilers of later parts of the comic too, beware.

Hijack was a perfect addition to the story, to transition it fully from the more playful tone the comic had held, into the more serious stakes it holds now. Of course this isn't where that transition began, the previous chapter had set it up and hints were always there, but it's Hyjack's unique blend of childishness and malice that makes this overall transition feel right on the whole. Hyjack is a three year old artificial spirit, acting much of the time like the middle schoolers we have been following, but just like Isaac, he packs way too much power for his young self to wield properly. Where to even begin?

How about how, almost effortlessly, he bonds with and admires the activity club kids. As a kid-like spirit himself he's the only character who isn't looking down on them, and by just paying a little attention he does wonders for both Isaac and Isabel, on a day Spender in his normal self would have been devastating. While he plays no part in Ed's growth this chapter, aside from being the obvious threat to face, being a positive influence on half the group (We'll GET to him and Max, later) is better odds than any other character in this story yet. Hell, his actions motivating Johnny to do actual self-reflection and admit aloud he wants Max's approval alone makes him a wonder to this story.

I remember initially being confused as to *how* hijack could have possibly been Spender while stalking Rose, with Isobel. How did he possibly talk to her with such familiarity? How did he know so much about the two of them? But then I noticed, *technically* it's a lot of her assuming details and him vaguely reacting/agreeing. He knows juuuuust enough about her for the infiltration mission, having been assigned by Mina to carry this out. The cruel IRONY that the one big piece of information he does have, the loss of Eightfold, no doubt procured from Mina before, is something Spender didn't notice at all, talk about twisting in the knife.

Their conversation, despite being between strangers, feels familiar because both parties are rather similar, and clearly would be good friends, in other circumstances. Hijack shares the heroic curse like so many others in Bayview, thinking he can save everyone himself and not caring about his own injuries, which of course Spender is the poster child for, so Isabel's words of concern apply to him just as much. The sad truth here, lies in the main difference between Slender and Hijack; the latter *listened* when offered advice. Hijack didn't block out other people; he accepted their critical words and considered them, changed his thinking.

Hijack's effect on Isaac isn't as direct, but is no less profound. His casual compliments and their reactions revealed to us just how STARVED FOR APPROVAL Isaac is, his insight into the boy's anxieties reveal just how obvious they are (and how blinded Spender is) and him risking his life, not taking the cheap escape route, because he couldn't give Isaac another reason to blame himself, is so heartfelt.

But what's interesting about it, to me, is WHY he understood Isaac so quickly, and to my mind that's because Hijack, too, is upset by the people he accidently hurt. He just wanted to play the hero, to punish some evil bullies, but there were such consequences. Not just Max and his arm (we're getting to it!) but also Isabel's HATE, the other kid's fear, consequences for Jeff... Hijack learned all about unintended consequences and learned so well that he refused to allow more to form from his own inaction, a mindset so antithetical to Spender's entire character me might as well be the man's opposite.

But what ABOUT him and Max, you ask? Max's words cut him deeper than Dave's own blade, exposing his heroic persona to be yet another form of bullying. Isabel came to the same conclusion but it was Max who drove it home, and after he was offered to come to Hyjack's house and play Wii Sports, clearly a mark of honor in the young spirit's perspective.

From here, there's not as much for me to speculate on, in chapter 5. His role as an artificial spirit, his fate at the hands of Dave Jones, Cody's grudge against him... All pretty open cases, in my eyes. But when one becomes two... Oh, what a character we have! Taking the brain gimmick further, Left Hijack is logical and, at least puts on airs of, being intellectual, while Right Hijack... Is just a sweet boy. They have new accenting features, Let's glasses and Right's baret, emphasizing their logic vs creativity angle, but this is reflected further in only Right Hijack displaying fear before Fauxbia. What hyjinks these Hyjacks will get into remains to be seen, but a few things I want to highlight:

1. They, creations of Mina, are now hiding out in the possessed body of Bill Spender, her best friend's abusive father. Whatever trouble in her relationship with Richard, that is gonna be awkward when it comes out.

2. Despite being two pieces of the original whole, the two Hyjacks have different spectral colors, and the spirit aura parts of their body take on different shapes. Considering Lefty seems to pretty closely resemble the color and fighting of who we assume he originally was a part of, this seems like exciting new lore.

3. When the Hyjacks tried possessing spiders to flee, they ripped the poor things apart trying to in different directions. While the goldfish and current events with the mayor indicate they have a better hold on this now, REMEMBER THIS DETAIL. I'm sure we were told it for a reason.

[sabraeal]

To Taste of the Bitter Plant

[Read on AO3]

Written for @aeroplaneblues, who this year asked for either an Apothecary Diaries AU or a Skip to Loafer AU, and both of us could barely choose between them. Both were highlights of 2024 for us, and had their own unique challenges adapting them for obiyuki...but Apothecary Diaries won out! I just hope it was worth the wait!

Beware the men beyond the gates. Shirayuki can count on her hands the number of times the Virtuous Consort has betrayed her disgust— saved, for the most part, for traitors, improperly prepared sea perch, and the antics of a particular foreign prince— but her eyes narrowed with it then, contempt just barely concealed behind the wave of her fan. Soldiers think that any woman is theirs to take, so long as some other man hasn’t marked her first. And even then…

Shirayuki does not need the consort to finish the thought to take the warning. She knows only too well about men and their desires. And the sorts of things they might do to sate them, if they have the power.

But it is strange to apply knowledge gleaned from the darkest shadows of the flower district to the outer court's gleaming pavilions.

Whispers do eddy in her wake, men stopping to stare as she passes— did you see that? A girl with red hair. Outside the harem? She must belong to someone! If she were mine, I’d never let her out of the house— but none reach out to touch. Not here, where powerful men might bring a beloved concubine. But their interest is palpable, nonetheless, and their desire…

Ah, well, maybe she should have covered her head, as Mitsuhide has suggested. Or dressed herself up as a eunuch, like the Virtuous Consort. Or accepted a more visible sign of her allegiance, the way Zen had hoped.

Shirayuki lifts her fingers, shifting the slender stick speared through her hair. It’s silver— true silver, warming beneath her touch; even if the soldiers don’t recognize the wisteria blooming at one end, they’ll mark that. Few men could afford such a gift, and none of them are worth crossing; for all that the army men are rough, swaggering over the cobbles of the outer court, they are easily dissuaded from misbehavior that might damage their prospects. Nothing like the ones that stalk the alleys of the red light district, turned away from every reputable establishment. Entitlement, it seems, is an entirely different beast than desperation.

Still, it is at a brisk pace that Shirayuki strides across the pavilion; not that of a timid girl hurrying from one task to the next, but an officious maid on some important man’s business— which she is, technically. How far Zen’s name might reach outside the walls of the Inner Palace, she couldn’t say, but it might be enough to give a pushy man pause. Eunuchs rarely ranked highly among the men of the military, but a favorite of the emperor himself…

Do not make yourself beholden to any man, Yeye had told her, a finger waggling as she chased his heels. The only power you have in this world is that which you make with your own two hands.

Those same hands clench now, nails digging into the flesh of her palms before they release, falling away to float at her side. There’s nothing grasped within them yet, but that would change. Starting today, so long as she doesn’t disappoint Ryuu shi fu.

The carriage waits for her at the outer gate, just as Zen said it would. Windows shuttered, nondescript; the sort of conveyance that could be for any man who might be found wandering the outer pavilion. Her nerves balk as she approaches, begging her to remember the last time she’d been thrown on a cart, sent to places unknown—

But, she counters, forcing her breath to come out even, steady. That is how I ended up here.

It’s not much, but it's enough to get her through the door.

One of my men will be waiting there, Zen had promised, smile as soft as the brazier’s glow. Knowing you, Apothecary, you’ll need someone to watch your back. Close as he was, she’d already been flushed, the attention of the Inner Palace’s Overseer at his finest overwhelming to say the least. But she’d pitched a spirited protest— reminding him of her previous independence, and her many years living in a far more dangerous city for girls like her than he could ever imagine. Which had only led to him reminding her that in their short tenure together she has been kidnapped twice and the object of a potential assassination once.

Shirayuki allowed that perhaps a single guard might not go amiss. She could hardly complain when Mitsuhide was as circumspect a companion as any could ask for, never getting underfoot and only stepping in when the word of the Overseer would carry farther than her own. For all that he was as sweet as a young lady’s lapdog, officials quivered before him like hares before a hound. If she needed a minder, there were certainly worse for Zen to saddle her with

Which is why it’s such a surprise when he does.

“It’s you,” is the first thing to fall out of her mouth, and she just barely bites back the accompanying, why?

“I should introduce myself.” The man in court blue is not Mitsuhide at all— no, he’s smaller, more slender, with an all-too familiar set of gold eyes set below a straight-edged scar. The hand pressed to his chest is not so much callused as nicked, small scrapes striping his skin that healed less from proper attention and more from time. “I’m Obi. That’s not my real name though”— he admits it easily, proudly— “and everything else about me is a secret.”

She stands there for a moment, one beat chasing the heels of the next, before she stumbles out, “There must be some sort of mistake.”

*

“So what’s this little side trip all about anyway?” They’d left the sedan shuttered in the palace, saving her from the prying eyes of soldiers and court officials, but once they’re out on the city streets, Obi opens them, propping an elbow up up the sill. He’s long-limbed, this former assassin of hers, and curious too, head craning out into the open air as far as his anatomy will allow. “Some official got knocked off or something?”

“I don’t know the particulars of his position,” she informs him, primly. “But it’s someone important enough that Zen isn’t willing to record the cause of death as misadventure without some form of inquiry.”

It’s not until she catches the twitch of his mouth that she realizes— “Ah, I mean, Zen liang jun…?”

“Don’t worry, xiao jie.” One side of his mouth slips up, cocky and, quite honestly, infuriating. “Zhu ren has seen fit to explain that whole situation. Don’t gotta bother trying to act all formal in front of me. Honestly, I’m impressed that an attendant like you is interested in a little liaison with His Most Esteemed Eunuch-ness, even though he doesn’t have all the necessary equipment to get you—”

Warmth burns up her neck, heating her tongue like a hob does a kettle until, “And you’re sure Zen asked you to watch over me?” shrills out of her, scalding as steam.

“He even said I might be useful.” His chest puffs up beneath his robes, not one to be daunted or damned by faint praise. “But what about you, xiao jie? Seems funny to send off some consort’s food taster to solve the sort of thing a court official does.”

“I have some knowledge of medicinal plants.” An understatement, to say the least, but it’s not as if her former assassin needs to know about her apprenticeship. He probably wouldn’t even believe that a small eunuch child could be a master physician, let alone that she would permit him to act as her mentor. “There is a saying— perhaps you have heard it? The dose makes the poison.”

“That’s one way to think about it, I guess.” Her bodyguard is constant motion, eyes crinkling and limbs shifting; a whole theater packed into a person so narrow he might slip through the floorboards. “So what d’you think it is? Wolfsbane? Cinnabar? Maybe even snake—?”

“Fish.”

That’s enough to quiet him; all of his theories drying up like a stream in summer. “…Fish?”

“Pufferfish, to be exact.” She smooths her skirts over her knees, cotton a luxury against her palms. “It’s a delicacy. And if it’s not cut and served in precisely the right fashion, poison from its organs can leak into the flesh.”

He blinks, eyes flashing like coins across knuckle-back. “And rich people pay to eat it?”

“Yes.” Funny to hear a man like him balk at a risk to his life, but well— she’d thought the same when Garrack explained it to her.

They only prepare the fish? Even now she remembers how she sat back on her heels, utterly stymied. Nothing else?

How amused Garrack yi sheng must have been when she shook her head, knowing the sort of opulence the Emperor had at his own table. You have to remember: people with that much money and power live in a different world from us regular folk, Shirayuki.

Still. The protest even now sat bitter on her tongue. That hardly seems reasonable. Don’t they have some sort of common sense?

Garrack’s mouth had twitched, letting out, Not a lick of it.

“They pay quite a lot to not only eat it, but to have someone on their staff that is trained to prepare it," she informs him with the same briskness Garrack yi sheng had imparted it to her, as if it were common knowledge, an unquestionable truth.

“Even though they’re only going to eat it every one and a while?” He lets out a whistle, long and low. “That’s rich people for you. All the money in the world and they can’t buy themselves a bit of common sense.”

Shirayuki smothers a smile behind her sleeve. “Maybe so.”

*

It is a man that greets them at the door, well dressed for a servant, but head bowed too deeply to be the master of the estate. “My mistress has taken to her bed,” he explains briskly, not rude but simply busy. Harried, almost, pausing to look over his shoulder before leading them down a spacious corridor. “So it is I that will act as your guide for the day.”

“Is she feeling all right?” Shirayuki hurries her steps, careful not to draw insultingly close, but— interested. Concerned. “Is she having ill effects from the dinner? Should I look at her after I finish—?”

“Ah, no. Liera niang niang does not partake of the Master’s more…unique dinners.” His hand lifts, politely waving off her concern. “She is only fatigued from the strain of his passing. We are lucky that his brother was visiting and could take over the running of the house, or else I might fear for her nerves. She is not a strong woman, I am afraid…”

“How fortunate for you that your master’s brother was already here.” Obi’s smile sits politely on his lips, but there’s not a drip of sincerity in it. “It couldn’t have all fallen together better if he planned it.”

There’s no use to the warning glance she gives him, not when the servant only nods, eager to agree. “So you say! I cannot imagine what ills might have befallen us with both master and mistress unable to perform their duties. Now here is the kitchen. It has not been used since”— his voice drops, wary— “the incident.”

But it has been tidied, Shirayuki can’t help but notice. The cooking utensils are all clean and in their proper place, and whatever was left over from the fish has been tossed out. Not that she can blame them; fish guts didn’t just smell as they ripened, they lingered, long after the mess has been taken away. But what she's left with is only washed counters and organized shelves, jars and bottles sitting neatly, ready to be plucked from their perch when needed.

A fine place for cooking, no doubt, but for an investigation— well, there’d be no proving if it was the fish that caused the Master’s unfortunate demise. Which means she’ll have to approach it from the other angle: assuming that it wasn’t.

“Do you know what this is?” The jar falls into her hands with a rattle, four oblong berries skittering across the glass. Rolling them to a corner, she can see the four-point star on one of them, stark even through the deep amber drink.

Obi’s mouth curls, like a cat who has caught sight of an unwary bird. “It’s booze, xiao jie. Good stuff, with how clear it is.”

He lifts the lid, and the pungent scent of liquor rolls over her, metallic in her mouth. And yet beneath that, something sweet. “That’s not what I was asking.”

“Ah!” The servant bustles over, replacing the lid with a smile. “That’s roka liquor, Master’s favorite. He enjoys it— ah, forgive me, he enjoyed it frequently.”

“Frequently? Are you sure?” The sting of the scent still lingers, even after the man’s tucked it back on the shelf. “I hadn’t realized it was so…popular.”

“It isn’t.” Pride puffs his chest like a rooster strutting through a hen house. “Master is— ah, was a connoisseur of rarer delicacies. An associate introduced him to it just a few months ago, and he could not get enough of the taste. He always said—

“What is going on here?” If Shirayuki had thought the servant finely dressed, the man at the door is even more so, the green silk of his robe bright and finely embroidered with waterfowl flying from a pond. The master’s brother, it seems, scowling at the lot of them as he sweeps in. His eyes dart over each corner, accounting for every last spoon out of place. “No one is allowed to enter the kitchen without permission.”

“Ah, zong guan.” The servant cast a nervous look back at them before bowing over his hands. “These are…ah, you remember, we were told—?”

“So you let them in?” The man does not so much approach as descend, falling upon the servant the way a hound might a quivering hare. “Off the street? I told you that no one—”

Obi steps between them in one smooth motion, one hand pressed solicitously to his chest. “Pardon me, da ren, it seems you have not heard. We are part of the palace’s investigation into the death of your brother.”

His brow furrows, fouling his already sour expression. “Well, no one informed me that there was any inquiry! I certainly didn’t request one.”

Her former assassin’s smile turns to all teeth. “The request came from Liera niang niang.”

“Leira—?” The man sputters, practically pacing the length of the room before turning back and beginning again. “That woman! I am the master of this house in my brother’s absence—”

“Xiao jie.” Obi turns to her, voice low, all of his levity gone. “Do you need more time?”

She does not need to hear him say it to know he really means, this man is not going to give us it if you do.

With one last look at the jar, its cloying scent still caught in her nose, she shakes her head.

“Good,” he murmurs, mouth curling into a wolfish grin. “Then let’s get out when the getting is still good.”

*

“So you’re telling me it wasn’t the fish?”

The Virtuous Consort is not famed for her mobility of expression, but there is a hint of amusement lingering in its corners as Zen throws himself back in one of her chairs, disgruntled huff exploding from his lips. “There’s no need to be petulant. One cannot be an expert in every subject”

“I didn’t say I had to be,” he snaps, arms folding over his chest; less like a man of authority and more like a put out young lord. “I just thought…well, I’d been so sure…”

“It was not the fish that led to the death of your acquaintance.” Shirayuki glances at Obi, and he slips a clear glass bottle out from his voluminous sleeve, setting it on the table. It is quickly followed by another, this time tinted brown, and well— she’ll be giving him a firm talking to about just what is appropriate to take from the medical office later, but for now, his act of petty theft only aids her explanation. “However, there was something else at his table that was dangerous enough to take a life.”

Obi places down two shallow cups— she hadn’t seen him pocket those either, nor had the Virtuous Consort, by the height of her brows— and pours liquor into both of them. “Both of these bottles contain roka liquor, but only one of them is from the estate, and the other is from the medical office.”

“Oh.” Zen grimaces; a sure sign that it’s been pressed on him before. Hardly a surprise when Garrack calls it her favorite cold remedy. “Why would he have this hanging around? It’s not really the season for coughs or colds.”

“His servant said that a business associate had brought him a bottle a few months ago to serve with dinner.” She glances up to where Zen lounges, one hand propped on the chair’s arm, casually cupped around chin. “Leira zong guan developed quite a taste for it.”

That careless posture cracks down the middle with a splutter. “T-that stuff? A taste? Was he some sort of glutton for punishment or something?”

“I admit, I was surprised too.” Few medicines had such enthusiastic receptions. Effective ones, at least. “It’s used often in the medical office, but it’s known for having a bitter, astringent taste. Unpleasant, to say the least. But after having it with his dinner, he bought a whole case of bottles off of his associate, to serve when he has his more…unique meals.”

“All right, so Leira clearly had odd tastes when it comes to his liquor.” Zen frowns down at the cups on the table, thoughtful. “But what does that have to do with his death?”

“Plenty. Although it might seem like a relatively easy process, fermenting roka berries is much harder than it seems.” She hefts one of the bottles into her hands, letting the berries rattle along the bottom of the glass. “Any alcohol has the ability to turn to poison if it’s brewed the wrong way, but wines— which is what this is, even if we call it liquor— do not often turn. However…there is a component inside these berries that, when fermented under certain conditions, turns to poison.”

He shifts closer, squinting at the bottles. “Under certain conditions?”

Shirayuki sets the two bottles beside each other. “In the first few months after I came here, Ryuu shifu taught me that certain plants are particularly potent at certain times of day. For the roka berry, its potency is at its highest at the brightest part of the day. However, we pick it in the morning, at dawn’s first light.”

Zen’s smile slants knowingly. “Ah, because that is when the poison would be at its most potent as well.”

“Exactly. Which is why we store them in a cellar underground during their fermentation—”

“And used these darker bottles too, right, xiao jie?” Obi plucks it from her hand, grinning as he lets the berries rattle across the glass. “So even when you take them up to the office, you aren’t letting them get a bunch of light.”

She blinks. “Yes. Though truth be told, even that probably wouldn’t be enough to activate the poison. Despite being called a berry, the outer skin is hard, and it makes it difficult for anything but the medicinal oils to diffuse into the alcohol for some time. But it is common with wines that when a first fermentation comes out too astringent, you may ferment it a second time— back sweetening, it’s called. Quite literally, it makes the wine sweeter.”

“So roka liquor doesn’t have to taste like bile?” The betrayal in Zen’s voice lays thick, like a child who has found a sliver of green pepper hidden in his dumpling.

“No, no, xiao jie— you said that the skin makes it hard for anything but the oils to get out for some time.” Obi glances down at the cups. “And that back sweetening, I’m guessing— that’s past the point where the poison decides to sit this one out.”

Shirayuki nods. “The skin breaks down enough over the process where the costs begin to outweigh the benefits. Also not enough on its own to kill a man, but…”

“But between the sweetening…and the clear glass…probably not fermented in some cellar anyway…” Zen stares at the table, glancing between the two bottles, no longer sitting behind their cups. “Which one…?”

She grimaces. “Ah…whichever one is sweet?”

“Welp,” Obi huffs, swaggering over to the table. “Only one way to find out!”

Shirayuki might be next to him, but he scoops up a cup too quickly for her to do anything but gasp, “Wait!”

“Huh,” he hums, licking his lips. “That is a little sweet, isn’t it?”

Mitsuhide is already scrambling out from behind Zen’s chair, pounding the other eunuch on the back. “Obi!”

“Shirayuki!” Zen turns wide eyes to her, pleading, but he hardly needs to ask, not when she’s already digging through her bag.

“I have an emetic,” she promises, and before she can even fully hold it out, Mitsuhide sweeps it from her grasp.

“No wait!” Obi gasps, one hand pressed to his chest, the other warding the bigger man off. “I’m only—“

It’s no use— once he opens his mouth, Mitsuhide pours the concoction down it, leaving him coughing, gasping, retching—

And finally, with one generous heave, he empties the contents of his stomach into the basin one of the consort’s ladies hurry to give him. He must have had a larger lunch than she’d seen him pick at on their way back to the palace; it goes on for what feels like hours.

It’s the cough that tells her he’s done, and the deadpan glare as he wipes the back of his hand over his mouth. “I was going to say, zhu ren,” he rasps. “I was joking.”

“You…” Zen stands, towering over where he crouches, more angry god than man. “Have a terrible sense of humor.”

“Yeah, well…” Obi saws out a laugh. “Takes one to know one, I guess.”

*

“So.” The Virtuous Consort sets her mask aside once Zen and his aides have left, no longer the stand- offish daughter of the north, but just a normal girl, not much older than her. “What weren’t you telling them?”

“I wasn’t” —she draws short, catching Kiki’s pointed glare— “trying to keep anything from them, not really.”

“Of course. You just won’t tell them anything that might condemn a man if you’re not certain.” Her head tilts, the stream of sunlight that passes for her hair cascading over one shoulder. “So what is it that you aren’t certain about? Or shall I guess instead?”

Shirayuki glances at the corners of the room; empty, her other attendants handily dismissed. Other girls might duck around an archway or press their ears to the door, but if those ladies linger, they have at least done her the dignity of being impossible to detect.

“Why now?”

Kiki blinks, her slippered feet tucked into the cushion beneath her. “What do you mean?”

“His servant said that he had acquired a taste for it. And certainly a back sweetened brew would have held poison, but…” She licks her lips, mind churning like running water over stone. “The other bottles there— they were brown. Still not safe, but…a slower death. So why then. Why…?”

“The clear bottle.” Kiki nods, thoughtful. “Why now?”

“It was a gift from his brother.” She’d barely needed to press the servant at all; simply praising the fine vintage as he saw them out to the carriage was enough. “But where could he have gotten it? Apothecaries typically brew their own, if only to know that it’s done properly. He could have done it on his own but…”

“It’s not the thing a man hoping to be a high ranking court official would dirty his hands with.” Her brows furrow, gaze fixed out to the courtyard beyond. “So the question is, who did?”

“Someone had to have made it— and then given it to him! Told him what it could do, and…” Despite the warmth of the summer months, the night presses in cold around her. “They’re still out there.”

“Ha.” Kiki shakes her head. “Now there’s a thought to keep a person up at night.”

[bitethedustfools]

Crossover ideas 1

TCF x TWST

(Spoiler alert. Beware)

Yall know that Lilia Vanrouge raised Malleus Draconia so I raised you this question: What happened when he meet Cale Henituse who also raised a baby dragon?

They both are father-shaped, a general/commander of war, a trusted friend of a royalty, you see the point.

I just wanna see some crossover between my beloved story/game and I do not have the skill to write a story. I only have idea.

I think its neat to put Cale in TWST world. Hes so lovable that small and big fairies alike just latched onto him even though he have such villainous traits thats barely shown unless someone mess with his loved ones. Just like a cat lounging around lazily but had no problem fcking you up.

The senate is gonna be fcked and got their golds looted or something because Cale is a scammer and got that Dominating aura and everyone keep mistaken him as a dragon.

Lilia is going to be his best friend or a platonic partner or something since they both are similars in so many ways. Look, they both have a dragon as their kid. It's perfect. let them raised them together.

Meleanor is 100% approved cuz she hates the senates and Cale did a great job giving a big middle finger at them.

Just imagined how he got dropped into this world out of the blue, cursing loudly at the gods like a sailor or just quietly seething cuz Raon is with him. Maybe he got dropped during a war, or infront of Lilia and perhaps Meleanor.

But anyway, everyone is watching him with surprise and with the intensity of the sun at what Cale, a stoic, pretty and a slender man, carrying so preciously and tenderly in his weak arms.

Its a dragon! A baby dragon!

Can you imagine the chaos? The misunderstanding? Like Raon, although his form is different than Meleanor's dragon form, he is by far most similar to her, minus the purple colour. It could be said a slight changes in characteristic due to different species of a father.

In other eyes, they probably mistaken him as the heir or that they dont know that Meleanor had two children and began to plot.

And then Raon, offended that they think he's someone elses son, pointed at Cale and said, "He's my father."

Que, everyone thinking he's a dragon or that Meleanor actually have two husbands and had hidden one. Meanwhile, Lilia here is trying to jog his memories if she ever told him about this or hes just forgot.

Or maybe Cale got send here and Raon at random place and Raon just coincidentally got dropped at the egg chamber. Everyone just thought that the egg had hatched even though its not.

Raon either admit or commit to the bit, just like Cale. Gonna trick them thinking hes the heir to the briar valley while he put this egg here inside his personal storage dimension and he latched to this one person that reminded him of Cale which is Lilia.

Lilia is sus but he had no evidence. Like, Raon is powerful alright and he's the only baby dragon here. he's also smart, but okay. The only reason he believed hes Meleanor's son is because Raon is so rebellious to the senates and they cant do anything because hes too smart and can obliterate them in one go.

And thats all, really. Dont have any ideas now. Thanks for reading this.

[godsandvillains-if]

Is there any facts you're able to give us about Pierce? Pronouns, general description, etc... Will we be given their motive as to why they've gathered a group of superpowered individuals as well?

Pierce goes by he/him, tall, slender but fit, blonde, and in his late fifties. The motive and the reasons for him to gather a team of super-powered people are a mystery, even to the team itself. He is a very shadowy and cryptic man, and he has an ulterior motive for saving the MC from the clutches of the terrorists.

Just beware of him. Keep that in mind.

Thank you for the question!! 🥰

[dragonnan]

Eavesdropping

May Prompts 2024

May 13

Here is another one from the archives - it actually has two instances of eavesdropping so it was an excellent fit for the prompt!

Beware the Jabberwock, My Son

Warnings: Child Abuse, Abuse of a Minor

Forty-five minutes. Not the first time he'd been left to linger in the blazing sun while his brother cavorted with some random dignitary in need of a good pandering. Mummy and Daddy had been in Prague for the past week, and weren't due back for another three days, so Sherlock's fate, then, rested with his lazy git of an older brother to collect him at the end of term. Of all the luck.

Sherlock held back on the urge to kick at the untidy scatter of gravel that had been strewn across the pavement, with the exodus of students, not long ago. It had been a hit to his dignity, being the last student remaining after everyone had gone. It wasn't so much his outcast status; he rather preferred it to the humiliating and, at times, painful treatment he'd received during his brief stint at Winchester. That didn't mean, though, that he wanted to wander the grounds indefinitely like some wraith from a Dickens novel.

Stomping down the zig zagging steps to the small courtyard below, Sherlock tugged the stiff collar of his starched shirt away from his throat – the loathsome tie already wadded and crammed in the pocket of his dark blue blazer, which hung askew from one slender arm. Mummy would have a fit at the state of his neckwear but he could barely tolerate it most days and tended to rip it free the first chance he got. Cutting across the manicured lawn, he worked his way round the side of the complex where large trees offered an amount of shade. His overnight bag dragging behind him, leaving a small groove in the verdant grass, Sherlock was nearly to the wide spreading oak near the dormitories when he heard a clipped whine.

Shoving his bag up against the peeling tree bark, blazer thrown aside and landing atop the bag more by luck than design, he scuttled to the outer wall of the raised courtyard in order to gain an unimpeded view. The trees were thicker, here, towards the back. Too early for the groundskeeper, the litter from an impromptu rugby game, among the older boys, still lay scattered about. Sherlock toed aside a paper serviette, stained with grease, before gracefully climbing into the branches of one of the smaller beech trees. Hidden amongst the aubergine leaves, he leaned forward, wrapping his fingers around a branch smoothed by many a young man's grip, to peer out at the scene below.

There were two figures – one significantly larger than the other – about 10 yards further on and close to the treeline. The large man Sherlock didn't recognize; though it wasn't difficult to surmise the relationship. The boy was someone Sherlock knew more by nature of a shared disdain, cast upon them by the greater student body, than due to any sort of interaction. Intelligent, gentle, and possessing a sort of oddness that set him apart, Lucas Peacock had even less in common with the rank and file of Harrow than Sherlock did. At 16 he was two years Sherlock's senior. However he was one of the few students whom Sherlock had felt any sort of affinity; though their interactions had started and ended with Lucas offering the rare smile and Sherlock giving Lucas his lunch on exactly one occasion. It had been beans and franks; appalling, bland, and of an unidentifiable protein source. Not the first meal he'd foregone – there were limits, after all. Lucas hadn't minded one bit – gangly as he was and somewhat concave he'd wolfed down the meal and nearly licked the plate.

Now, he frowned as the large man; father, going by the similar features, gave Lucas a vigorous shake before slapping him across the cheek.

Slipping from his perch, Sherlock darted across the manicured green, quickly drawing dual attention.

Mr. Peacock scowled at his approach. “Run along, boy!”

Thin arms folded over his chest, Sherlock took in the darkening bruise on Lucas's cheek as well as the swelling of his lower lip.

“The grounds are off limits to anyone not a student and are restricted to students and faculty only. You aren't supposed to be back here.” Not entirely true, in fact, though it was unlikely the brutish man would be aware of school policies.

“Aren't you a bit young to be attending this school? Where are your parents?” Peacock looked about himself with a trace of unease.

Sherlock sniffed. “I'm nearly sixteen.” Well, sixteen being relative; he was roughly thirteen months shy of sixteen, not that this thundering oaf would know the difference anyhow. “Aren't you a bit old to be beating up children?”

Drawing himself up tall, the man shook Lucas by the grip on the boy's collar. “What I choose to do with my son is no concern of yours, boy! Now run along! This is no affair of yours.”

Instead, Sherlock crowded closer – sneering at Peacock's unkempt clothes – the spot of gravy on his collar – the untucked shirttails – the overall slovenly manner with which he carried himself. “Perhaps not but I'm betting the school administrators would take an interest in what you're doing.”

The congealed rage was barely a warning as Lucas was abruptly thrust towards the grass, his shoulders impacting hard enough to knock the wind from his chest, as Peacock turned fully towards Sherlock.

Sherlock was suddenly, vibrantly, aware of two things. The size of the man he'd elected to confront, and the absolute absence of any other human life, outside of their tiny drama.

He realized that a wise option, hinted in his brother's bored tones, would be to turn heel and run for the main building and the promise of adult support. He was light on his feet and very fast and knew he could easily outpace the stumbling drunkard at barely half his normal speed. However that option also came with a cost. By the time he was able to reach the headmaster's office, navigate the throng of staff demanding he explain what he was doing indoors “without a parent or guardian”, locate an adult willing to actually listen, and then prod, wheedle, and harry said adult back out onto the grounds, Peacock would be long gone and Sherlock would very likely be presumed of either a wild imagination or outright lying.

So, instead, he spread his stance; feet slipping a bit in the damp grass, and subtly turned himself to the side. Instructions unfolded in his mind – those long afternoons in a light cotton gi, the pants of which were always slightly too long.

At his movement, Peacock first grinned; then laughed. “And what is it you intend to do with those tiny fists, boy? Box my kneecaps for me?” He laughed again – making a mock lunge. With practiced ease, Sherlock twisted to the side, spun on one foot, and slammed his heel in Peacock's groin – hard.

The large man howled – cupping between his legs and nearly going down on one knee.

And that was where Sherlock made his devastating mistake. Intent on ending things, quickly, he darted around the broad figure, elbow poised to bury in a kidney, when a shattering blow impacted the side of his head and threw him five feet back into the solid ground.

His shoulders twitched as he tried to remember how to lift his arms. There was a reason he needed to stand, and quickly, but he couldn't seem to order his thoughts enough to remember why. And then pain tore at his scalp as heavy fingers twisted into his hair and pulled; forcing him to his knees. Peacock shook him violently and Sherlock was certain he was going to vomit. A bright halo surrounded the man that Sherlock knew meant Bad Things. But before he could consider that information Peacock was spitting something furious at him – similar to the hate-filled words directed at his son. Sherlock was finally able to lift one hand and lace his fingers around the man's wrist.

“Get your hands off me you little shit!” Peacock released his hair just as he backhanded Sherlock across the cheek.

He was on the ground again – stomach heaving acidic bile when the hands grabbed him for a third time. Sherlock couldn't help it, he whimpered, arms raising to cover his face. And Peacock laughed. He laughed, and laughed, and then his open hand struck the side of Sherlock's head; once, twice, and on the third slap Peacock let him drop.

“Stay away from my family or there'll be more of that! And worse!” Sherlock heard him spit; and then there followed a hazy period – the vague sense of footsteps retreating and time slipping by in some fashion.

Shadows passed over him but he couldn't imagine moving – between the halos and throbbing shapes and tinnitus if he so much as lifted his head he would vomit. So he stayed on the ground and counted his breaths and tried his damndest to block the misfiring signals-PaIn-nAuseA-bleEdiNg-DizZy-hammering at the soft tissue inside his skull.

He had no idea how long he lie there.

He'd been cringing at the piercing screedch of cicadas when the cacophony of mating insects was broken by the rapidly building thunder of steps pounding through the grass.

Peacock coming back for more, just as he promised! The moment hands touched him Sherlock bellowed – swinging blind and feeling his left hand rake along flesh; the satisfaction of a pained grunt immediately lost as his wrists were caught and soft words made headway through his panic.

“Easy. You're safe. Focus on my voice.” Repeating cadence as slowly he was released – the hands staying well away and allowing him space to breathe – to regroup.

Then, eyes still tightly shut, he sniffled and turned his head. “Mycroft?” He hated the tiny warble but couldn't help the relief when his brother responded.

“I'm here. Are you able to move? Is anything broken?”

Sherlock flexed his hands; his arms. But when he braced against the ground and tried to push up he gasped – subsiding again as sharp pain ballooned through his skull and shrieked through his ribs. “It's... I can't...”

A firm hand pressed solid against his leg. “I'll fetch the matron...”

“No!” Sherlock snatched outward and managed to catch a sleeve by pure luck. “Please, My just... I want to go home... please...”

A sigh followed. Then... “Very well. However I will need to carry you. Do you need time...?”

“I...” Fingers dug in the grass, Sherlock curled into himself. So Mycroft waited while Sherlock steadied himself – taking the steps needed to prepare for what would certainly be both painful and grating. Deep breaths – fingers playing against the earth. Then, finally, he nodded – even that small movement crashing a tsunami of stomach rolling agony through his head.

Mycroft was careful but there was no avoiding the turmoil caused by hefting his brother in his arms. It was brutal. Sherlock gagged; longer fingers clinging to Mycroft's jacket as he used every technique he knew to hold himself together. It seemed an age before, sweet blessed relief, they reached the car and Mycroft helped ease him onto the back seat – covering his face with his jacket to block out the throbbing rays of sunlight.

He sank against the cool leather and knew little more until, an undetermined time later, his brother's voice intruded once more.

“We're home. Just a short distance to the house, if you can manage it?”

He could – though he had to cling tight to his brother the entire time and depend upon his guidance to avoid stumbling as Sherlock still couldn't manage vision without a sickening swoop through his belly.

And then he was laid on the couch – both of them agreeing that navigating the stairs to his bedroom was too daunting a prospect. What followed was yet another exercise in misery. For half an hour Mycroft held him steady as he repeatedly heaved into a bowl. Attempts to stifle the flow with medication led only to repeating bouts to the point he was sweaty and shaking by the time it abated. In between gagging up his organs, Mycroft dabbed a wet flannel at his various wounds – primarily the seeping split that cut a line through both his upper and lower lip – courtesy of the ostentatious emerald on Peacock's ring.

Eventually, though, the bloodied rags were gathered and the bowl rinsed and left on the floor near his head. Mycroft insisted on pain medication and a few tentative sips of juice. Afterward Sherlock was left alone. It was only a short time later that sleep finally pulled him under.

It was dark when Sherlock woke. His head still hurt but not in that violent way from earlier. He was able to open his eyes and, best of all, the sickening halos were gone. But other aches had now asserted themselves. His ribs and right hip were nearly immobile after repeated impacts against the ground. There were bruises and small cuts on the back of his hands from trying to block the blows Peacock had rained on him – the gemstone in his ring leaving narrow gouges behind – and his shoulders felt half twisted from the sockets. As for his face it was a network of throbbing hurts.

Grunting, he stiffly pushed upright – wobbling as he struggled to regain his balance. From the kitchen, he heard a small sound, and then Mycroft stepped into the room. His face gave away little but his eyes flicked up and down Sherlock's form in an evaluating fashion.

Sherlock noted, however, that Mycroft's hands were in fists at his sides.

“You've been asleep for three hours. How is your pain?”

Both arms wrapped around his middle, Sherlock groaned. “Painful.” He squinted as he regarded his older brother. “I see you capitalized on the opportunity to invade the icebox.”

Eyes losing some of their softness, Mycroft snorted. “Quite. The devastation was incalculable.” Stepping forward he braced a hand against Sherlock's back. “I prepared dinner, you insufferable brat.”

Swatting away the probing fingers, Sherlock was, nonetheless, grateful at the proffered ice pack – which he held against his tender scalp. He briefly considered an entire tub of ice water – surely every bit of him could benefit from the soothing cold.

While he was busy with the ice, Mycroft returned to the kitchen; only to reemerge minutes later with a bowl and glass of water.

“Lentil Bolognese.”

Sherlock regarded the heavy soup; inhaling the rich scent and wary of his sensitive stomach. However there was no indication of further upset so, gathering some broth on his spoon, he sipped delicately. In short order he'd eaten more than half before setting aside his utensil. Dinner was followed by a decadent slice of tarte tatin supplied generously with a heap of thick créme fraîche. Sherlock ate every crumb and watched enviously while his wretched brother followed suit without so much as offering a single bite from his share.

After the plates were cleared away, Sherlock settled back against a heap of pillows and sighed. When Mycroft took the chair across from him, however, Sherlock clenched his fingers and stared towards the fireplace.

“This cannot be avoided, brother mine. I need to know.”

Still looking away, Sherlock hunched his shoulders. “What for? There's nothing to tell. I picked a fight and lost. Certainly that wouldn't be the first time I came out the wrong end in a scrap.”

“No, but you also are not one who typically initiates a fight. So why now? And with an opponent of clearly larger size, going by the shape of those bruises.”

At the continued silence Mycroft sighed. “Very well. I suppose I shall have to speak with the Administration as well as members of the staff. Surely one of them will have seen...”

“It was Mr. Peacock.” The admission came out in a soft murmur – Sherlock's throat flushing with heat.

Mycroft stared at him, openly aghast. “Bradford Peacock did this to you?”

Finally lifting his head, glaring, Sherlock jutted his chin. “I believe I told you that I started it.”

“Yes, you did. However, you failed to mention that your opponent was an adult man with at least ten stone on you.”

Sherlock's thumb dug into his index finger while pondering the stability of his limbs. At least in his own room he could conceivably lock Mycroft out. Not that his brother wasn't capable of entry if he so chose – locks were more of a suggestion for the both of them, much to the dismay of their parents.

“He has a young son, as I recall. A boy close to your age. Lucius.”

“Lucas.” Sherlock's eyes had returned to the fire but he could feel Mycroft's heavy gaze bearing on him.

“He was abusing him.” There was no question in the statement. Sherlock didn't reply but his teeth tightened together. Mycroft's voice fell softer still; dangerous. “And when you attempted to stop him... he beat you.”

“Beat me. He hardly-”

“You have two cracked ribs, a concussion, and there was blood in your vomit!” The fury in his brother's tone snapped Sherlock's jaw shut like a vise. His fingers twisted and pulled at the legs of his trousers until he noticed and forced his hands still.

Twice his mouth opened with a retort at the ready and twice he swallowed it back. His tongue dragged across his broken lip and he flinched. His fingers resumed their movement so he tucked them beneath his arms. Voice a dull rasp, he finally managed to get something past his teeth.

“I did what I had to do.”

Across from him, breathing out heavily, Mycroft nodded. “As will I.”

It was a week later; Sherlock's bruises mutated to a sickly green and yellow, that he was crouching in his favorite listening spot at the top of the stairs behind the top pillar. An unrepentant eavesdropper he had his head tilted back and both feet braced on the opposite wall. Below, his mother was preparing breakfast while his father and Mycroft sat at the table sharing the paper. Since his parent's return he'd been expecting some sort of outrage with regards to his injuries. Though he'd been able to mask the pain to his ribs he couldn't hide the variegated hues on his face. Yet, upon their arrival home, collected by Mycroft in Father's old sedan, Mummy had merely tsked; brushing the hair from his forehead with worried eyes before sighing. “Oh, Sherlock.”

Whatever fantasy Mycroft had spun, it had clearly been good enough for his parents. No doubt painting Sherlock in a less than favorable light.

Still, the truth would have been worse, with consequences that didn't bear consideration.

The scent of his mother's scones began to waft up the stairway. Sherlock breathed in appreciatively – eyes closed and lifted towards the warm morning light, when his mother's voice, and a familiar name, suddenly cut across his musings.

“I heard Bradford Peacock was arrested.”

Sherlock stilled – a cool weight heavy in his belly. After a beat his father hummed; likely swallowing a sip of coffee. “I hate to speak ill of anyone but I have always felt there was something not quite right about him.”

Mellie made a sound before her voice rose again. “It seems he was discovered behind a pub in the village.”

Mycroft's voiced filled in when Mummy trailed off. “As I read it he had apparently been beaten. Severely. In fact, both hands were broken and several teeth were knocked out. Given how he had been treating his son it was the least he was due.”

“You needn't sound so delighted, Myc! Atrocious business.”

Sherlock barely held himself back from peering around the corner and giving himself away – though he had no doubt that his brother knew he was there.

“No, what was atrocious is the reason why he was arrested in the first place. And I will delight in any punishment delivered to a man for hurting a child.”

In that moment Sherlock was certain Mycroft was not, entirely, thinking of Lucas. It left an odd heat behind his eyes.

There was a familiar clunk of the oven door and the rattle of a tray setting down on the counter. “No. I suppose I cannot fault how you feel. In truth, when I read how he'd been abusing that precious child I wanted to race to the constabulary and personally tear out his eyes.”

Father chuckled. “I would have driven you there, my love.”

Nose wrinkling, Sherlock let himself slump back against the bannister.

“Still, I feel for that poor boy. It destroys me to think of him taken into care.”

Mycroft's voice interceded again; deeply pleased with himself, no doubt. “You needn't fear, Mummy. I understand he will be taken in by his maternal grandmother. From what Sherlock has told me, she cares for him a great deal.”

Sherlock had told him no such thing; though he didn't doubt it was true. Not that he appreciated being made an accessory to his brother's schemes. Still, he could admit to being... content... with the outcome of Mycroft's intervention.

Conversation soon drifted to less interesting topics and Sherlock entertained himself with his own thoughts – roaming the fields in his mind until-

“Alright, young man, enough lurking! Breakfast is on! But do wash up before coming down here; no doubt you've collected several pathogens on those hands.”

Silently, Sherlock stood and crept back from the stairway. Mummy may suspect him of listening in but as yet could not prove fact without eyes on. On cat's feet he eased his way back to his room and up onto his bed – waiting several beats before loudly allowing his heels to thud against the floorboards. Shuffling to the door, he cracked it open – letting the hinges squeak, before calling down in a voice heavy with sleep.

“Did you call, Mummy?”

Her less than convinced snort carried easily from below. “Oh, you heard me. Hurry, now, before your eggs go cold.”

Grinning, Sherlock made his way to the washroom.

No doubt he would owe Mycroft for his illicit use of manpower on a less than sanctioned mission. His brother always did collect on his debts. Still... Sherlock couldn't deny that the results had been worth it. Maybe he could even convince Mycroft to procure a booking photo of Mr. Peacock.

Fingers clean enough and somewhat dried, Sherlock pressed his arm against his side and headed for the stairs.

It appeared it was going to be a fantastic day.

Comment of AO3

@sgam76 @totallysilvergirl @sevdrag @helloliriels @calaisreno

[elle-p]

All of the Fortune-Teller's P3R dialogue(minus the bit about the Tartarus changes).

Fortune-Teller: Hmm… I feel a strange aura around you… In my mind, I see visions… People's pasts, presents, and futures… For most people, I see clearly and far ahead… But you are different… Your future is filled with both blinding light and stagnant shadow… I can see but a small portion… What lies beyond that is shrouded in mystery… What a peculiar fate you carry… Now, young man… Bearer of light and shadow… If you wish to know more about the near future… come and talk to me… I will share my limited visions with you…

Fortune-Teller: Now, tell me… What shall it be?

Fortune-Teller: Would you like to know your fortune?

{Yes, please.}

Fortune-Teller: Then let us begin… Fortune-Teller: Let us hope that you find fortune in your destiny...

{No, thanks.}

Fortune-Teller: Come back any time…

Fortune-Teller: You have pulled fate's trigger… The bullet passes through many, heading directly to its target… What target that may be, however, is unknown to me… You must find that out for yourself…

Fortune-Teller: A long rail under the empty sky… On it stands youth in disarray… You seem to live a tumultuous life… What do you see at the end of the rail…?

Fortune-Teller: I feel another change… A strong wind blows across the world, sending a blue flower's petals into the air… How will you interpret this wind…? As a weak and frail breeze, or a brave and mighty gust…?

Fortune-Teller: It seems you have made another friend… A late-night affair, unseen by all… A bond made in the darkness, where the shadows lurk… The result of this bond is too distant to be seen… The only way to know how it will end is to see for yourself…

Fortune-Teller: Shadows within shadows… Many shadows crawl amidst the immense shadow… Twelve shadows feasting upon the heart of man… Monstrous, yet dignified… They gather around you… Beware…

Fortune-Teller: Guns scattered in the billowing shadow… Arms reach in to grasp them… Their muzzles pointed at different shadows; their triggers pulled on different occasions… Where do you point your gun? What will occur as a result of its firing…? Can you collect all the guns that have been scattered…?

Fortune-Teller: I see a girl… She stands between light and dark, life and simulacrum… She falters… as if not knowing on which side she belongs… Hm…? She is trying to tell you something… Can you hear her words…?

Fortune-Teller: Three blades close in on you, tearing the shadow apart… A brave howl confronts them… Things seem to be stirring around you once again… There is more… In the depths of the abyss, another blade watches you closely…

Fortune-Teller: A dark past sinking into the deep shadow… It enfolds the people who are involved and captures them… Who are the ones that are trapped…? Hard though I try to see them, my vision blurs, and everything becomes obscure… Can you see…?

Fortune-Teller: The golden sky spreads outside the window… A girl holding a world of white in her slender arms… A boy struggles, searching to find meaning in himself and the girl… But the conclusion has not yet been written… It is entrusted to the girl and her white world… You must stand firmly, and watch things unfold…

Fortune-Teller: After the storm comes not calm, but another trial… Do not despair, however… I sense strong forces at your side, even more so than before… Be brave, and confront this hardship with unshakeable resolve…

Fortune-Teller: A light has disappeared… The shadow grows darker… But the lost light's will lives on in a strong, new light… You have reached a turning point… The light has begun to challenge the shadow… Your time is coming… soon…

Fortune-Teller: A strong wind blows across the world, sending a blue flower's petals into the air… The flower discovered the world, made friends to protect, and has become another light… The lights are gathering around you… Be prepared…

Fortune-Teller: A bridge lit by the full moon… Songs of victory echo in the air as the shadow is overcome… Go… Now is the time for celebration…

Fortune-Teller: Under the fat crescent moon… a feeble light at the hollow tower… A gunshot rings out, shattering my vision into a thousand pieces… I am sorry… I can see no further… But I can say this… The shadow yet remains…

Fortune-Teller: Oh…? Is this a new friend…? How mystifying… No one can see into his essence… No one, save for one girl…

Fortune-Teller: The answer and the secret to life are passed on, one life to the next… Two lights now pierce through the shadow… The hour draws near… How do you fare…?

Fortune-Teller: A girl falls under the full moon… A boy walks amidst shadow, and he himself is shadow… A child who bears shadows within… The immense shadow approaches… Its depth unfathomable; its extent without limit… It comes to end all things… The darkness hidden by the shining heavens… How will you stand against such a fate…?

Fortune-Teller: You have pulled the trigger of fate… I see it now… The target was the shadow of impending doom… Your goal is now clear… Keep your flame of life ablaze until the end…

Fortune-Teller: I see nothing… No… What I see is nothingness… It is the void… But do not lose heart… Emptiness is not necessarily the end… The void is infinite… as is the universe… Whether this marks an end to all things or a beginning… It is in your hands…

[ninadove]

Nina reads Dracula 🦇

May 16th

Thought things couldn’t get worse for our good friend Jonathan…? WELL YOU WERE WRONG:

God preserve my sanity, for to this I am reduced. Safety and the assurance of safety are things of the past. Whilst I live on here there is but one thing to hope for, that I may not go mad, if, indeed, I be not mad already. If I be sane, then surely it is maddening to think that of all the foul things that lurk in this hateful place the Count is the least dreadful to me; that to him alone I can look for safety, even though this be only whilst I can serve his purpose. Great God! merciful God! Let me be calm, for out of that way lies madness indeed.

Is the Count running for N.1 Abusive Technically-Not-Boyfriend? Because he has a pretty strong shot.

Up to now I never quite knew what Shakespeare meant when he made Hamlet say:—

"My tablets! quick, my tablets!

'Tis meet that I put it down," etc.,

for now, feeling as though my own brain were unhinged or as if the shock had come which must end in its undoing, I turn to my diary for repose. The habit of entering accurately must help to soothe me.

We’re his only comfort and we can do nothing to help… 😭

When I had written in my diary and had fortunately replaced the book and pen in my pocket I felt sleepy. The Count's warning came into my mind, but I took a pleasure in disobeying it.

The fact that this was an intentional infraction breaks my heart in the best way possible.

In the moonlight opposite me were three young women, ladies by their dress and manner. I thought at the time that I must be dreaming when I saw them, for, though the moonlight was behind them, they threw no shadow on the floor.

More normal human things!!!

There was something about them that made me uneasy, some longing and at the same time some deadly fear. I felt in my heart a wicked, burning desire that they would kiss me with those red lips. It is not good to note this down, lest some day it should meet Mina's eyes and cause her pain; but it is the truth.

Honey I think Mina will forgive you for [checks notes] being manipulated through vampire pheromones

There was a deliberate voluptuousness which was both thrilling and repulsive, and as she arched her neck she actually licked her lips like an animal, till I could see in the moonlight the moisture shining on the scarlet lips and on the red tongue as it lapped the white sharp teeth. Lower and lower went her head as the lips went below the range of my mouth and chin and seemed about to fasten on my throat.

SOMEONE DRAG HER AWAY FROM HIM

I was conscious of the presence of the Count, and of his being as if lapped in a storm of fury. As my eyes opened involuntarily I saw his strong hand grasp the slender neck of the fair woman and with giant's power draw it back, the blue eyes transformed with fury, the white teeth champing with rage, and the fair cheeks blazing red with passion. But the Count! Never did I imagine such wrath and fury, even to the demons of the pit. His eyes were positively blazing. The red light in them was lurid, as if the flames of hell-fire blazed behind them.

NO NOT YOU

"How dare you touch him, any of you? How dare you cast eyes on him when I had forbidden it? Back, I tell you all! This man belongs to me! Beware how you meddle with him, or you'll have to deal with me." The fair girl, with a laugh of ribald coquetry, turned to answer him:—

"You yourself never loved; you never love!" On this the other women joined, and such a mirthless, hard, soulless laughter rang through the room that it almost made me faint to hear; it seemed like the pleasure of fiends. Then the Count turned, after looking at my face attentively, and said in a soft whisper:—

"Yes, I too can love; you yourselves can tell it from the past. Is it not so? Well, now I promise you that when I am done with him you shall kiss him at your will. Now go! go! I must awaken him, for there is work to be done."

Queer-coding? In my XIXth century monstrous villain? It’s more likely than you think!

"Are we to have nothing to-night?" said one of them, with a low laugh, as she pointed to the bag which he had thrown upon the floor, and which moved as though there were some living thing within it.

Oh oh.

Then the horror overcame me, and I sank down unconscious.

Jonathan would love 2024 Tumblr slang! He too was once overcome by The Horrors™!

I awoke in my own bed. If it be that I had not dreamt, the Count must have carried me here.

YIKES.

I am sure this diary would have been a mystery to him which he would not have brooked. He would have taken or destroyed it.

😭

As I look round this room, although it has been to me so full of fear, it is now a sort of sanctuary, for nothing can be more dreadful than those awful women, who were—who are—waiting to suck my blood.

Was this staged…? Was this entire assault staged as a fucked up manipulation tactic to get Jonathan to seek protection from the Count??? I need answers

< Prev 🦇 Next >

[spicywarl0ck]

🥰 Happy Friday! I was too late to announce my own participation today but I can still send prompts! :D Either "I would give anything to see you smile" or "Have I ever lied to you?" - "Are you really asking me that?" for mHawke/Fenris, our mutual all-time-otp, of course <3 Whichever takes your fancy! 🥰

Thank you so much for this prompt x3 I had so much fun writing this for @dadrunkwriting beware, it turned a bit lemony (but also not really, no details) but they are unfortunately interrupted before they can do anything naughty. Pairing: male Hawke/Fenris Length: 864 Rating: M

“A ball?” Fenris arched one dark eyebrow at him, his green eyes glaring dangerously. “Don’t tell me you are serious about this Hawke.” the elf added in clear distaste, his arms crossed in front of his chest as he leaned against the wall, close to the balcony. It was hard for Hawke not to get sidetracked by the beautiful view of soft orangy light painting Fenris's white hair in the colours of the setting dawn. He’d probably never get used to his handsome husband. “The Inquisitor invited us. It would look bad not to go. Plus, I am certain it will be fun.”

“Fun? What about me gives the impression that I’ll have fun at a social gathering in Orlais?” Fenris sighed. “If I might remind you, we have been to Orlais before, it has been a disaster. You’ve been imprisoned even.”

“Only briefly!” Hawke countered. “And I still think it was fun. I certainly had fun,” he added. 

“You were the only one.” Fenris's eyes darted to the side as he took in the mountain view of Skyhold for a heartbeat. “And we are speaking about the Winter Palace Hawke. The Empress herself will be there. Do you truly think she’d allow you to bring me in?”

“Why shouldn’t she? Because you are an elf? Pfft, the Inquisitor is elven himself and brings a Tevinter Altus as his company. I think we’ll be fine.” Hawke paused a moment before he added: “Aw, come on. I am sure it’ll be fun. Have I ever lied to you?” 

“Are you really asking me that?” Fenris scoffed, his green eyes narrowing at the man with the shit-eating grin. 

“It was hypothetical.” Garret sighed. “Nevertheless, I would love to attend and walk in with you.” He closed into his grumpy husband, one arm softly wrapping around the slender elf’s waist to pull him closer.

“And I would love if you’d do me the honour to dance with me,” Hawke added softly.

“An honour yes?” Fenris chuckled as one of his hands stretched over Garret’s tunic. It was astounding how the elf still managed to make his heart beat faster with one gesture after all these years.

“Of course.” Hawke leaned in, almost close enough to kiss the man who made him the luckiest man in Thedas

But even though he initiated, Fenris closed the gap between them, his hands wrapping around Hawke’s neck to pull him closer. He deepened the kiss with a grunt before he got pinned against the wall, both lips moving against each other feverishly.

It had been a while since they shared the pleasures of intimacy and Hawke had trouble keeping his hands to himself.

He didn’t hesitate to lift Fenris within his arms, the elf’s fingers twitching where they rummaged through his black hair, tugging ever so slightly to demand more while a tongue was all too eager to pry his lips open.

Fenris was quick to invade his mouth with a feverish hunger, a sound close to a moan swallowed by each other’s mouths.

He felt every movement of Fenris's tongue as it pushed against him, every tug the elf’s fingers made against his eat and every grunt breaking loose from his lover’s lips as their hips ground against each other already.

“Bed.” Fenris broke the kiss impatiently, his voice close to a growl and demanding.

Hawke was all too happy to follow the order and set it into motion quickly as he carried his lover over to the bed, dropping him onto the soft pillows without a thought before his hands started to unbuckle his belt as he watched his lover undoing his tunic swiftly.

There was nothing that could have prevented him from ravaging Fenris right here and then, except for the knock on the door.

“I am sorry for the interruption Serah.” The ambassador's voice was muffled as it broke through the door before it creaked as she opened it. “I wanted to discuss the matters of the Ball with you…” she added before her eyes widened at the sight of two flustered and dishevelled men.

“Uh, my apologies. I am…” Josephine brushed one of her dark locks behind her ears, clearly staring at the champion whose pants slowly dropped down.

“I will wait for you in my office,” she concluded, yet it took another heartbeat before she pried her eyes away, the door closing behind her. Yet, only to open one more time with a whispered: “I am sorry.” before it fell shut again, unmoving.

“I think we should get dressed.” Fenris sounded unpleased, his fingers already moving to close his tunic.

“Or…we could continue.” Hawke offered instead. “It’s not like she’s expecting me anytime soon,” he added but admitted defeat when he saw Fenris’s expression. He didn’t stand any chance.

“And make it even more awkward?” Fenris shook his head as he stood up. “No, You should go,” he added as his hands clung firmly onto Hawke’s tunic, their lips so very close to touching again. “I will be here when you return and then…” The elf paused as he stretched onto his tippy toes, his lips brushing against Hawke’s ear.

“We can lock the door.”

[rayspookyhistory]

𐙚 Hachishakusama 𐙚

Hachishakusama, also known as "Eight Feet Tall" (八尺様, Hachishakusama), is a compelling urban legend from Japan, known to haunt and terrify children.

Hachishakusama stands at a towering eight shaku, about 240 cm or 7 feet 10 inches. She is often depicted wearing a long, flowing white dress or burial kimono. Sometimes, she is described wearing a wide-brimmed hat. Her face is usually obscured, adding to her mysterious and ominous presence. She mainly resembles a lady.

She emits a deep, masculine voice that repeats the sound "Po... Po... Po..." in a slow, rhythmic manner. This sound is often the first sign of her presence.

Hachishakusama typically targets children, usually those around the ages of 8 to 13. The reasons for her preference for children are unclear, but it adds a layer of dread to the legend. Once she has chosen a victim, she begins to stalk them relentlessly. The child and those around them might notice her figure lurking in the distance, her voice growing closer over time. Children who have seen or heard her are marked for abduction. The legend states that once marked, the child has only a few days before Hachishakusama takes them away.

Origin of the Legend

The legend of Hachishakusama is a modern creation that has gained popularity through the internet, particularly on Japanese forums and horror websites. It is a part of the larger genre of urban legends and ghost stories that blend traditional Japanese folklore with contemporary fears.

Protective Measures and Rituals

Surrounding the child with bowls of salt and placing protective charms (omamori) around their living space can help ward off Hachishakusama. The salt is believed to purify and create a barrier against evil spirits.

The child may be confined in a room with religious symbols, such as Buddhist sutras or Shinto talismans. These symbols are believed to provide protection by creating a sacred space that evil spirits cannot penetrate.

Moving the child to a distant location, preferably outside of Japan, is considered one of the most effective ways to break the curse. The belief is that Hachishakusama's influence weakens with distance. However, the minute they step back into Japan, they are to be abducted.

Cultural Impact and Interpretations

Hachishakusama has appeared in various forms of media, including horror manga, video games, and creepypasta stories. Her story has been adapted and retold in numerous ways, cementing her place in contemporary folklore.

The legend taps into deep-seated fears, such as the fear of the unknown, the supernatural, and the vulnerability of children. It also reflects societal concerns about the safety of children and the ever-present threat of danger in a seemingly safe environment.

Hachishakusama shares similarities with other supernatural figures in folklore, such as the Slender Man from Western urban legends. Both are tall, mysterious figures that target the young and evoke a sense of pervasive dread.

Popular Story Example

A well-known version of the Hachishakusama story involves a young boy visiting his grandparents in a rural village. During his stay, he encounters Hachishakusama in the garden, hearing her eerie "Po... Po... Po..." sound. His grandparents, recognizing the signs, quickly take protective measures, isolating him in a room surrounded by salt and religious charms. Despite their efforts, the boy feels her presence growing stronger. Ultimately, he is sent away to live with relatives far from the village, breaking the curse. This story highlights the combination of traditional protective practices and the ultimate need for distance to escape her grasp.

BEWARE THE WRATH OF THE HACHISHAKUSAMA

and also look at my cute drawing i did of her during making this :3

[slendermanlore]

"...perhaps the largest quality-controlled list of creepypasta on the Web."

Happy Halloween, Internet/rabbits/HYBRIDs/all creatures of the night in-between! At this peak of spooky season, I have once again updated my masterlist of all things creepypasta, Alternate Reality Game, and unfiction, and the goody bag of other web 2.0 curiosities.

Some notable additions to the list this year:

White Enamel: The classic point-and-click exploration of an abandoned asylum in the same vein as 99rooms, still playable.

In the Darkness of the Fields: An r/nosleep classic conveying the horror of rural isolation, major The Silence of the Lambs vibes.

Three Visits to a Hidden Tribe: Another r/nosleep story exploring the horror of consensus reality and the fallibility of memory.

Liminal Land: An analog horror alternate reality game created by two YouTubers well-versed in the field.

SkyCorp Home Video: A channel not so much analog horror as analog humor, irony-poisoned in the best way.

Welcome Home: The multimedia ARG that has recently made waves for its elaborate puzzles and worldbuilding, with genuine love for the colorful "lost media" puppet world it depicts.

Chainmail Chasers: An unfiction webseries and affectionate throwback to the age when creepypasta was a novel catalyst for discovery.

Netizens beware, you're in for a scare 🎃👻🦇

[sosuigeneris]

DESI GIRLS: BEWARE OF MEN!!!!

this is a story for all the south Asian girlies who live in South Asia. I have not one but two horror stories to tell you.

I was at my cousin’s reception tonight. I met some of my cousins, a couple of who I see more frequently and a few who I see once in a blue moon. And I met a cousin who I hadn’t seen in years.

This particular cousin of mine, let’s call her Anne, had gotten married during the pandemic. She’s pretty, tall, slender, dresses well, smart, and all that. The guy was okok but seemed like a decent guy regardless. She got engaged to the guy THREE DAYS after they met and was convinced that he was the one and all that. Now, I don’t really meet her very often but I follow her on instagram and I remember seeing her pictures and stories with her husband. She always looked very happy and he seemed like a good guy with a great job.

I met her today after three years. And learned through Cousin Kelly that she had gotten divorced.

the reason?

Husband Dearest was asexual. And did not convey this to her. Three years of a sexless marriage!! Three years!!

And what’s strange is that Kelly, who is also divorced - separated for the EXACT same reason. This cousin had gotten married right after high school so her ex-husband was the first man she had ever dated and got married to. That guy was asexual too! And guess who long that marriage lasted? 27 YEARS!!

She was a virgin against her will up until her late 40s. She didn’t experience her first organism until she was 47 or 48. She eventually left him and is single today. He didn’t want the divorce, and begged her not to leave him. He said that he would be more than happy to “let” her be with other men sexually as long as they didn’t get divorced. My cousin said hell naw bitch and left.

I always hated her husband because he looked like a sly fox to me. I found him rather cunning and ugly, he gave me pimp vibes from the start and I blocked him on WhatsApp and instagram at least 5 years before they got married. I would avoid him at every single family event. I also hate his name, his eyes, his greasy smile, his pot belly, his entire existence.

3 years?? 27 years?? Are you kidding me? What is wrong with these men not disclosing their sexual orientations to the women they are literally getting legally bonded to? I can’t imagine dating someone and going even a week without sex. It’s still understandable if the sex life faded but to be 20+ years in and the sex life didn’t even start - that’s bonkers. Also, getting engaged to someone three days after meeting them in this day and age is psychotic. That sort of arranged marriage scene was very common back in my parents’ days - but even my parents dated for 3 months before getting married.

Desi girls, beware. These men seem to be either rampant cheaters or go completely cold turkey. And do not get engaged if you haven’t dated him for at least 7 months to a year. 7 months is still too short, I personally feel that 2 years of dating and then marriage is the best combination of time and effort.

-cherry 🍒

[4thenookie]

so i rewrote eyeless jacks story

happy halloween! beware of gorey descriptions, some of this stuff is pretty gnarly.

Heaving a sigh, the young man closed another book with a dull thud. Jack Nyras was soon due to graduate at the very top of his medicine course, yet here he sat in the local library as if it were any other night. In front of him lay a plethora of books, as well as a quickly filling notebook. Upon the pages he scrawled the facts he’d raked his dark eyes over at least fifty times before, and each time he dragged pen across paper his hand seemed to get heavier. After briefly nudging his glasses further up the flat bridge of his nose, Jack got to work squinting at the impossibly small font of the third book he had picked up that day. The slender hand gripping his pen seemed to move of its own accord, as if it knew what to write before his mind caught up. His dark brows shifted slightly as he picked up a voice mere inches away from him. “You’re gonna make a great doctor, y’know. You’ve already got the handwriting for it.” a feminine voice joked, strangely enrgetic for a late midweek afternoon.

Reluctantly, Jack turned to face the girl stood peering over his shoulder from close behind his seat. He spent so much time registering another person actually speaking to him that he forgot to respond altogether. The girl’s glossy lips parted in a soft giggle, revealing a sliver of pearly white teeth. She opened her mouth to speak, closed it again, then eventually decided what to say.

“You’re on the medicine course, right?’ she asked, but she seemed to already know the answer.

Jack nodded. “I recognise you from classes.” he commented simply, thinking it rude to remain completely silent.

The girl’s eyes lit up at his response, her smile widening. She then seemed to consider something, her meticulously plucked brows knitting as she thought. “Sorry, remind me of your name?” she asked him with an apologetic look.

The brunette’s lips quirked. “Jack.”

“I’m Jenny.”

Jack nodded, and said nothing more. Jenny, who expected a little more from him in terms of a response, was quiet as well. After a moment spent in silence, she spoke again.

“Listen, I’m having a little get-together with some friends after graduation. Be there, please?’

Her blue eyes softened as she noticed the apprehension that crossed Jack’s face at the mention of any sort of ‘get-together’. “It won’t be anything big, don’t worry.”

Jack hesitated, a little taken aback by her offer.

“It would mean a lot to us- to me, if you’d come.”

With a sigh, Jack gave a small nod. Jenny’s eyes sparkled as she beamed at him.

“Great.”

Then she was away. Jack watched her go, a slight regret for giving in to the girl so quickly creeping into his conscious. He shook his head a few times, mildly tousling his dark hair, and returned to the solace of his books.

It took Jack until nearly a day later to realise that he had no means of finding out when or where this get-together was going to be. He was in luck, however, as Jenny approached him after their final lecture of the day. “Hey, Jack!’ the blonde called out just as Jack had made to leave. He turned to meet her beaming smile and bright eyes with a lightly earnest expression. Following continuous giggles and profuse apologies, Jenny presented him with a phone number, presumably hers, and skipped off to rejoin her friends. Jack watched after her for a few moments, his gaze lingering until she was out of sight. Pocketing the slip of paper Jenny had given him, Jack retrieved his books and left the hall.

Once it's door had been eased open, Jack made his way into his apartment. Having to confine his extensive work into such a small space, the books and papers sprawled across every possible surface made up the majority of his decorations. With a heavy sigh he threw his messenger bag onto the sofa, the rustic leather a stark contrast against the cream plush of the seat. Jack crossed the room to his record player, under which was a stand for his growing collection of records. The following moments were filled with the sound of Jim Morrison's croon, the psychedelic melody bringing life to the dim living room. With that he returned to his settee to continue his diligent work.

In the ensuing days Jack noticed that he saw Jenny very little. Although the last of his work was taking up nearly all of his time, the thought of her always lingered in the back of his mind. A brief glance at his calendar reminded him there were only two days left until he had to spend an evening with Jenny and her friends, and only one day remained until his ceremony. The thought of his doctorate dreams being even closer to achievability rendered him rather enlivened, and he found that for once he couldn’t wait for the day spent revising to pass.

The anticipation Jack felt while waiting for his name to be called was almost painful. His hands, which were rested in his lap, continually tightened and relaxed around part of his robe. Wearing the black garment somehow felt unreal, as if he were wearing somebody else’s clothes. Simply put, Jack felt like he was on top of the world, like nothing could possibly go wrong on this momentous day. It felt as though his heart might burst out of his chest when his name was finally called, and he couldn’t hide the smile that crept onto his face. His hand was almost shaking as hands were shook, and he could hardly believe that the certificate clutched in his hand was his. Jack’s eyes darted down to the paper, and away, and back again, as if he thought it would disappear. Once the final name had been called, Jack glanced around at the students surrounding him and realised Jenny was not among them. The thought to ask after her crossed his mind briefly, but it was quickly forgotten when he was pulled into a warm embrace by his mother. Once she eventually released her son, the woman beamed up at him, her dark eyes twinkling. “Oh Jack, I’m so proud of you.” she joyfully gushed. Jack smiled down at her, his eyes filled with the same warmth. He presented her with his certificate when asked, and happily embraced her again. The two had drinks, and good food, before Jack had to be away. His mother, while disheartened to see him leave, was relieved to hear he had found good company. With a final hug and apology to his mother, Jack left for the address Jenny had given to him.

Upon his arrival to the house, Jack was warmly welcomed in by Jenny as soon as he reached the doorstep. She ushered him in, a musical echo emanating from another room. He was lead through the house to the living room, where Jenny’s friends sat with an assortment of food and drink. Jack was continually offered both, but he declined everything except a glass of water. A friend of Jenny’s immediately complied, and Jack was presented with a tall glass of the icy liquid. He took the glass and gave his thanks to the other young man who had given it to him, oblivious to the ice quickly sinking to the bottom of the glass. As the group talked and ate and drank, Jack slowly sipped at his water and noticed an odd taste left on his tongue. He found himself struggling to keep up with whatever conversation was being had, as though his brain was falling behind. Suddenly, nearly everybody in the room rose and left, leaving him and Jenny alone. She crossed the room to take a seat next to him, her beaming smile brightening her icy blue eyes. Upon his commenting of seeing none of her at the ceremony, her expression fell and twisted in a way he’d never seen anybody’s face shift before. After some moments she uttered a “Don’t worry about it.”, and said nothing more. The two sat in a heavy silence, and Jack noticed the room start to spin, then blur, then fade, then there wasn’t a room at all. There was a crash as his empty glass slipped from his hand onto the floor, and his body crumpled completely.

Once Jack awoke, he immediately realised his change in location. He could now feel the biting cold of the night’s breeze against his face, and the mild warmth of the candles surrounding him. Candles? The red wax slowly dripped onto the grass around him, and he registered something cold and course against his back and the chains binding him to it. A tree, presumably, considering he appeared to be in a forest. He found he couldn’t remember any forests being nearby. Then, the chants started. Jack rose his head and stood ahead of him was Jenny’s group, all draped in black robes with a sort of mask obscuring their faces. Above the chants in foreign tongues he could just about pick up the shrill sound of something sharpening. Just as he turned to figure out what the sound was, a cold hand seized his jaw and forced his head to turn upwards. He met eyes with Jenny. Her eyes weren’t shining anymore, and a blank frown soured her face. Wordlessly she raised her right hand, and clutched in it was a scalpel. Jack’s eyes widened, and he attempted to struggle and scramble away from her to no avail. The cool metal first met his face just under his left eyebrow before it was swiftly drawn diagonally across his eye. a scream was ripped from his throat. The sound pierced the air above the continued chants. Another cut was made in the opposite direction. A warm substance gushed from the incisions and down his face, rolling down his cheek and dripping onto his shirt. Then, something foreign clutched around his eye. Jenny plunged her fingers into his eye socket, her claw-like nails raking against the insides of his head. With a forceful yank, Jack didn’t have enough air in his lungs to scream again as the eye still in its socket met the eye held in Jenny’s bloody hand. It felt as though more pressure was applied this time, and the blade was drawn across his right eye at a sadistically slow pace. The second cut was rather juxtaposing - it came with an agonising speed. Over the burning pain overtaking his empty socket, Jack could hardly register the scrape of Jenny’s nails against the inside of his eye. His remaining eye was tugged and twisted from his head, and he found himself without the energy to scream. His vocal chords felt as if they had been ripped in two, the lack of breath in his lungs leaving his mouth bone dry. Blood dripped into his mouth from either sides of his face, the irony taste overwhelming his senses. The cold breeze against his warm, bloody sockets was jarring, and the sensation felt white-hot. Jack could hardly hear the continued chanting over his desperate gasps for breath, but he did make out another set of footsteps approach him. Few words were exchanged, and Jenny’s once jubilant tone was now as cold as her icy gaze. A pair of footsteps departed, and Jack faintly heard somebody shift in front of him. Albeit hoarse, a howl of pain was tore from deep in his chest as a scorching sensation overwhelmed his empty sockets. An indescribable substance filled the new cavities in his face, the thick liquid charring the delicate insides of his head. It ran down his face like lava from a volcano. Jack felt the skin of his cheeks burn and blister beneath it. He couldn’t hear the chanting anymore. He couldn’t see anybody anymore. He couldn’t think anymore.

Jack immediately knew that the body he was now in was not his own. The only reminder that this body had belonged to him was the scorched, empty sockets where his eyes would have been. His hands, now dark claws, were unnatural and ungainly, as though they weren’t ever his hands at all. A set of horns, pointed and gnarled, sat high on his head like a broken crown. His teeth, larger and sharper than before, left countless tiny cuts on his greyed lips. His greyed skin had lost all life. Jack no longer felt like the Jack Nyras he graduated medical college as. He now felt like a monster. A monster that was starving.

[goldentemplariumcrow]

romance & relationship headcanons!

Dionisus edition

1. what is your muse's sexual/romantic orientation?

Dio is a circumstatial pansexual, as in he'll be open to having sex with every other gender if his preferable one isn't available (he's more inclined to having homosexual relationships than any other when it comes to his time in bed), and homoromantic.

2. has your muse been mainly attracted to masculinity, femininity, androgyny, or an even split (between two, many, or all of the options specified)?

Aesthetically speaking he can appreciate all, but in a more sexual way, it's undeniable that he has a preference for the male body, and he knows it.

3. has your muse been mainly attracted to men, women, non-binary people, another identity not specified, or an even split (between two, many, or all of the options specified)?

Most of Dio's attraction is towards men, but he did have a few partners who were women and trans in the past.

4. does your muse find any specific features particularly attractive?

The eyes and scars.

5. what is your muse's ideal first date?

Something casual. Take him to a cafe, a museum date, a library, tea shop, a walk on the beach or on the local park, if the other muse has the skills, Dio will be more than happy to go on a parkour or free running date too. He uses first dates to see the other person's vibes, measure if he can feel anything wrong with them by reading their body language and choice of words, and learn about them.

In a way, he simply goes with the flow and, whatever comes his way, it's more than enough for him, since Dio's expectation bar has been down in the dumps for quite a few years.

6. would your muse kiss on the first date?

If Dio feels like it's appropriate, the mood is right and the other person is giving him signals that it's fine, he might, otherwise, most he'll do is a kiss on the hand, cheek of forehead. He'll avoid the lips as much as he can.

7. where is your muse most sensitive?

Taking away the obvious spots of his neck and behind his ears, there's a secret one: his hands.

Dio has been wearing gloves and bandages on both hands for as long as he can remember, he keep them on even during intimate times when he's with a new person or his night's conquest, which means this man hasn't had much of the feeling of another person's skin in contact with his hands for nearly fifteen years. A kiss to his uncovered palm can easily turn him into a mumbling mess.

8. is your muse a good kisser? are they experienced or inexperienced?

Dio kisses with way more than his lips and mouth alone. Beware those hands of slender fingers and the strong legs. You let him run wild, this man will go wild. He will leave not only your lips with a taste of him, but your whole body will have the jitters too. Chest pressed on chest, messed up hair, a good feel of your ass, even a squeeze of your thigh between his and vice-versa. He kisses with fiery passion that cannot be contained by the simple touch of lips alone.

You've been warned.

9. is your muse monogamous or polyamorous? would they be interested in a polyamorous relationship?

Whatever floats his partner's boat. Dio will be happy with monogamy and with polyamory, however, it needs to be noted that he won't take well to an open relationship.

All one needs to do when wanting a polyamorou relationship with him is to have a conversation where all parts involved will set their boundaries and interests.

10. has your muse ever been cheated on? would they ever cheat on their partner(s)?

Yes, he's been cheated on. And no, he wouldn't cheat even if he was given the world to do it. He's a lover, not a player.

11. how comfortable is your muse with their appearance and their body?

Dio doesn't mind his physique, he likes how he looks, in fact, in his opinion he's like any other average joe with blue eyes and blond hair who trains constantly. However, he has a huge dislike for the Isu marks on his body and thinks those make him a monster, and so, he doesn't like seeing them all that much.

12. does your muse get flustered easily? how would they typically react to compliments from someone they are interested in/dating?

Dio doesn't fluster easily when the compliments come from random people, or people he can tell only want to get into his pants. This changes when it comes from someone he has interest in and can tell they're being honest with him, because in his head that raises a flag that maybe there's something there for him, and he can, perhaps, try getting a little closer to them.

His normal reaction is to look away, either to the sides or up to hide the color of his cheeks, but another good indicator that he's flustered is when he starts to fidget with his digits right after hearing the compliment.

13. what traits does your muse value in a romantic partner?

Respect, understanding, loyalty, communication, trust, a sense of humor that matches his, adventurous, and a good libido (because that's an important way he communicates his love).

14. what traits does your muse want to avoid when it comes to choosing a romantic partner?

Entitlement, arrogance, know-it-all types, people who are too settled in their lives to try new things, cruelty, the propensity some people have to try to gaslight him (a literal living archive of memories of everything and everyone around him), unfeeling, no compassion for the next person, lack of curiosity, lack of interest in learning new skills... the list is longer, but these are at the top.

15. how does your muse feel about valentine's day?

It's a day like any other day, but he'll prepare something special if he has a lover during that time.

16. what is/are your muse's love language(s)?

Quality time, physical touch, acts of love (gift-giving when his partner is comfortable with it).

17. what are some of the signs that your muse shows their care/love without saying they love/care about their partner?

This man has his days packed to the brim. He barely has time to breath, let alone for rest and recreation. But he'll find a way to open spaces in his busy day to spend whatever time he can with his beloved, he'll wake up earlier and prepare breakfast for the two of them, he'll leave lunch ready for his partner, and he'll send little messages during the day asking how his lover is doing and reminding them that he loves them, also, post it notes and handwritten notes can be found in his partner's things reminding them to eat, drink water and take care of themself.

18. how does your muse feel about marriage? would they ever want to get married?

Do you want to see Dio nope? Have an anxiety attack? Perhaps freeze completely? Ask him about engagement and marriage. That's how bad Lorenzo broke him, he's afraid of ever stepping on a wedding venue again. That's how much damage he took from all that happened.

Does he want to be married one day? Yes, more than anything. Dio craves having a family, that's the reason he keeps his friends close, because he considers them part of his family and his home will always have a space for them no matter how bad things are. He'd love to see his family's villa filled with life and the chaotic energy of a bunch of people he considers family, and, of course, he'd love to have a wedding ring on his finger, or something that represents his union with someone he loves so deeply he can see himself with them for the rest of his life.

Does Dio know how to accept any proposal? No, he doesn't. He'll degrade himself and point all of the negative points of being with him, he'll freeze, shake and have panic attacks, and he'll start to spill out all of the horrible things he was told by Lorenzo, because that betrayal left a deep and visible scar in his mind and understanding of what he is for the rest of the world.

He wants a married life, but he can't allow himself the chance to have it.

19. how many serious relationships has your muse been in? are they experienced or inexperienced when it comes to dating?

A few relationships, but some of them he's still evaluating if they were truly serious or just induced by the heat of war.

20. how does your muse feel about public displays of affection? would they engage in them?

So long as it's not getting inappropriate, he's fine with PDA, specially if it boosts hia significant other's confidence. He will, however, fake raunchiness if it bothers someone he doesn't like and wants to make them go away by causing embarrassment in them.

21. is your muse more flirtatious or shy, or does it depend on the context?

Depends on context and age, Dio used to be more timid and modest when he was younger, but as fully grown adult, he knows he's attracts gazes and weaponizes it by flirting and teasing.

22. does your muse tend to take on a more dominant or submissive role in the relationship, or does it vary based on circumstance?

Dio is a switch-dom in bed, but overall, when it comes to hia relationships, he's more balanced and chill, preferring to keep it leveled between himself and his partner. There will be times when he takes the lead, there'll be times when he will follow his partner, it all depends on what's going on.

23. would your muse be good at recognizing their partner's needs right away, or would it take some time?

We're talking about the paranoid guy who reads body language and goes people watching for fun on a daily basis. He might not know exactly what's going on and ask a few questions, but he'll come to his partner with their comfort drink and snacks, their favorite blanket and pillow and hear them out, or keep them company until he can help figure a solution to his lover's problem with them.

24. is your muse proactive in communication with their partner(s), or is this something they need to work on?

Dio's been working hard to get better in communicating what he feels and needs. It's a steep climb for him due to how he was raised and where he works, but he's getting there. One step at a time. Plus, it doesn't help him much that he still have random episodes of going completely mute.

25. does love and romance mean a lot to your muse? do they seek it constantly or let it come when it does?

It means a whole world to Dio to have love and romance in his life and relationship with his partner, he's a hopeless romantic and a sap in his core. However, actively seeking any of it is far from something he does, because he thinks that he's being a bother by doing so, and the last thing he wants is to become an issue by showing this side of himself and asking for more than he's given, or giving more and becoming too much.

26. is your muse more likely to be loud and proud about being in a relationship, or are they more quiet about it at first and open up about it over time?

Depends on the circumstance.

As a Templar, he can't be all loud and proud, it isn't seen as proper of a high ranking Templar to be all gushy about their feelings and relationships, it's considered unbecoming and dangerous.

But, in his own group of people he trusts, Dio has absolutely nothing against being proud of his relationship and assuming it to whoever asks about it.

27. is your muse more confident or shy when it comes to approaching someone they like?

It all depends on the reason he's approaching them. If it's just to be with them, talk, have some quality together, he's more than fine with approaching them, specially if it's while feelings are still kind of cloudy and he can say it's just nice to be with them.

If he's approaching to ask for more than what he is given though, he's very shy and will avoid doing it until he can't anymore.

28. would it bother your muse if they had differing interests from their partner(s), or would they delight in it?

Different interests means he has new stuff to learn and it makes him excited to research and study those things just so he can understand his partner better. It's a huge plus to have different interests.

29. how important is having (a) physically attractive partner(s) to your muse?

To be honest, Dio lives by the idea that beauty is all in how interesting a person is, their appearance can be enhanced or changed with cosmetics, clothes and accessories if they truly want to change, but there's no use to having a pretty face or an exceptional body if all that comes out of the person's mouth is stupidity and blandness.

30. would your muse ever be in an open/non-exclusive relationship? would it make them insecure, or would they be open to trying it?

As stated before, Dio is open to polyamorous relationships, but not open relationships. It brings up the question of how much he can trust the partners his partner is having relationships with, which places him in a vulnerable position due to his job. Thus, that's not an option for him.

Dio wants to know who he's dealing with and what's going on, a relationships with no strings attached doesn't being him a solid base to work on building defenses for himself and for his loved ones.

31. does your muse develop crushes easily? would they be open about it to a friend or keep it to themselves?

Not really, no. Dio flirts and teases a lot, but most of it all is just for show, nothing truly serious. His crushes are developed overtime with the amount of interactions he has with the other person.

With him the other is often interest, admiration, infatuation, crush, and love.

32. does your muse have an ideal "type"?

Not that Dio himself has perceived, but it's kind of a fact that he likes the strong guys who are all soft and caring inside. Though, the strong part isn't necessarily a physical one, it has more to do with how they present themself to the world and how they see theirself, if they know who they are and what they stand for, that's considered strength in Dio's point of view and he'll be attracted by that in some way.